


Blueberry Parfait

by chaya



Series: Rare Commonwealth Recipes [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Fingering, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Service Submission, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5755135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaya/pseuds/chaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deacon deals with feelings, establishing boundaries, and a steady stream of new vocab words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to sorrel/sorrelchestnut for her incredible beta work and support.

They find the hostages walking beneath the overpass, getting jabbed and shoved along by some Children of Atom.

“It was a real tip,” Charmer whispers from the bushes, clearly surprised.

Deacon smirks. “I don’t think you appreciate just how crazy these Atom kids are,” he says. “If someone tells you ‘hey, I think some guys in robes just stormed Vault 81 and kidnapped about a dozen people,’ it’s probably true.”

She narrows her eyes, watching them for a few moments. “They’re obsessed with radiation, and they’ve grabbed up the one group of people who’ve been exposed to almost none of it.”

“Probably not a coincidence,” Deacon agrees. “You ready for this?”

“One second.” She pulls out a compact mirror, applying some makeup near her eyes and then immediately smudging it downward. To someone far less experienced to Deacon, he thinks, she’ll look like she’s been crying.

“I think you smeared a spot.”

“Ha, ha.” She sets about hiding their packs behind the tree before smoothing out her vault suit and pulling out the elastic rope, sliding it over her own wrists, and standing in front of him. He falls into character, shoving her forward and out of the thicket and toward the group.

“Hey!” Deacon shouts. “You guys buying?”

“No, please!” Charmer begs convincingly, eyes wide and fixed on the gun in his hand. “Please, please just let me go.”

“Who are you?” The Child of Atom at the front is looking past Charmer at Deacon, guard clearly raised.

“Whoa.” He grins and holds his hands up. “Just a friendly merchant. Word was you guys were in the market for vault dwellers, and I need some caps. Like, fast. How much are you guys paying?”

“Please,” Charmer begs quietly. Her attention starts moving toward the road, like maybe she’s desperate enough to try to run. Deacon makes a show of rolling his eyes, grabbing her by the shoulder and hauling her closer so he can shove the gun under her jaw.

“Don’t waste her,” the man in the robes snaps. “She is untouched by Atom! She needs to be cleansed by his division, like the others. To send her to her death before then would be needlessly cruel.”

“You’re so right.” Deacon loosens his grip a little, and even tosses the gun to the side as an act of good faith. “I’m still a capitalist at heart, though, so whaddaya say to a fair purchase? Say, 100 caps?”

Intentionally low, intentionally doable. Appearing to disarm himself has relieved them enough that they’re not questioning it. The three more suspicious Children, 1, 2, and 4, have switched from hovering their hands above their holsters to checking their pouches for caps.

“Please don’t sell me to them,” Charmer begs, but she goes completely ignored. Her expression of terror matches the other vaultie’s faces pretty well, Deacon thinks, although if anything like ‘impressed’ crosses his face, the jig is up.

“Hey, listen, they might put together some search parties,” Deacon continues. “So if I snatch any of those little blueberries up, where should I bring ‘em to?” He rolls his eyes as the Child of Atom leader gives him a blank look. “Blue? They all wear – ? Never mind. If I catch more of the ‘unblessed’, where do I-”

“North of the most holy ground, in the shadow of the church of the dead god.”

“Between the crater and the steeple, got it.” Deacon nods and swats at Charmer’s backside, scooting her along. “Go on, little mouse. Off to your new home.”

“No!” She shrieks, holding her bound wrists up to her chin as she turns to block their view of his chest. He moves as if to cross his arms, fingertips of his right hand sliding out for the pistol just hidden within his jacket. “Please, mister, I don’t wanna-”

One of the vaulties, to his credit, actually flinches and begins to duck before the gun’s even visible, and thankfully, they accounted for most of the hostages scattering. Charmer’s 10mm, pulled from her boot, cracks out three headshots on the Children of Atom just as Deacon takes out his second.

“Three/two,” Charmer singsongs, and gets to her feet to tuck her gun away and cup her hands around her mouth. “Attention Vault 81 residents! Please reconvene here on the road to be taken back home! The gunfire is over! You’re safe!”

One of the vault women who didn’t make it more than a few yards stares at her. “Who are you?” she asks, gaze flickering from Charmer’s face to Deacon’s. “Where did you get a suit?”

“She’s a blueberry just like you.” Deacon beams. “Just from a different basket, that’s all. Come on! We’re going to help you back west.”

**

“Blueberry,” Charmer repeats a few hours later, when they’ve made it a ways back the road. “I kinda like it.”

“You’re my little blueberry parfait,” Deacon tells her, dripping with earnestness, and Charmer snorts.

“Do you even know what a parfait is?”

“It’s a dessert.” Deacon figured it out from context clues in one of his Old World books. “What? A roguish raider like me can’t enjoy the finer things?”

She flicks her finger at the leather arm guard and smirks. “You must be going soft. Am I rubbing off on you?”

She’s given him openings like that before. By now, it’s habit not to take the bait. “That cushy underground life ain’t for me,” he says, in just a gravelly enough tone it’s clear he’s still playing the part.

“So why’d you change your mind and decide not to sell me, huh?” She elbows him and flutters her eyelashes, matching him with her damsel in distress role. “Got a craving for something other than the cave living?”

Deacon can feel a flush creeping up his throat - a rare tell on something he’s been suppressing for a couple weeks now. He feigns the kind of shifty-eyed look a grunt might get when caught out, and Charmer laughs, throwing a glance over her shoulder to check on the trail of exhausted vault dwellers before smiling back at the wide open road ahead of them.

**

**

Codsworth handles a lot of the scrap. Deacon visits him sometimes, always curious about the Mr. Handy that ended up with so much personality and managed to survive for so long on his own. On the day Deacon brings him the Children of Atom robes, Codsworth is tearing up ruined couches for the stuffing.

“One can hardly go to the craft store and buy batting anymore, Master Deacon,” the old bot says. “Fortunately, Mum has always been a creative problem-solver. I expect we should have them ready by late fall.”

When MacCready gets laid up defending the camp from some super mutants a few days later, Deacon watches as Charmer makes a spot for him in the scrap house with a comfortable sofa with an ottoman for his leg. She teaches him how to sew the criss-cross patterns for the quilts. MacCready grumbles through it, at first, but his hands are nimble enough from trigger work that he picks it up and is almost a decent match for Codsworth by the time he’s healed up. The pair of them get the first blanket done for Mama Murphy and she looks touched enough to cry.

**

**

On one of her more easygoing days, Charmer explains to Deacon how pre-war life often required a lot of its own brand of resourcefulness. She tells him about victory gardens, plentiful in every neighborhood that wasn’t too rich to look down their nose at them. (She references her transition to Sanctuary and Deacon hypothesizes that she must have lived in a lower-class area before moving to this little paradise. He also guesses she didn’t see eye to eye with everyone in her new town. Whatever an HOA is, it sounds illogical and prudish.)

There’s a reason she’s good at looking at scrap with an eye for reuse. Metal materials used to be recycled and re-purposed as often as possible, she says, since ships and planes and power armor ate up so much of it. Charmer describes a particularly clever idea she’d seen in a magazine once, where thin aluminum cans were melted down in one’s own back yard using a home-made furnace. A hair dryer was connected to it to keep the fire oxygenated, and simple cookie or muffin tins were used as molds to pour the liquid metal into.

“A regular household didn’t have much use for aluminum medallions, but it was a smart concept,” she says with a fond smile. “Ours always went to the recycling drives.”

“Recycling drives?”

“Big parties where you turned in your cans, basically. The women would make dishes and there’d be games for the kids. They really tried to make it a community thing.”

They were short on everything. It’s why she knows how to sew, Deacon realizes over time. She’s never followed a dress pattern in her life, if her blank looks at the surviving booklets she finds are any indication, but she can patch with the best with them, saving up squares and rectangles of reclaimed fabric for future scrapes. Settlers who are too old or sick to be any good in the farm are taught to hem. Cold water takes the blood out of salvaged cloth easily enough.

**

**

They play word games to pass the time. Deacon has a feeling that this is something Charmer only does with him, since she learned about his interest in history. (She probably doesn’t know he also likes the game for the opportunities to impress her, but that’s neither here nor there.)

“Radish,” she challenges.

He scoffs. “It’s like a turnip.”

“That’s not a definition.”

“It’s a food. It grows in the ground like a carrot.” He quirks a brow. “Or, it used to? I didn’t see any in the Capital wasteland. Whatever. Tense doesn’t matter.”

She grins and shrugs. “You’re right.” She hands the bottle over and he takes a sip, not overindulging, knowing he’s better off staying as sharp as possible. After a moment he passes it back and her fingers brush his as she takes it. He pretends not to notice.

“Stapler.”

“Wh- we still use those, dummy. They still work.”

“I’m trying to bide my time for a good one!”

“I’m embarrassed for you. I think we’ve even got a few at HQ.”

“Maybe they were all too rusted to be any good.”

“Next one. Come on.”

She curls her fingers around the bottle and looks out past Sanctuary’s bridge, toward the hazy canvas of stars. “Witness protection.”

“That’s a noun?”

“Yup.”

Deacon thinks back. Those cheesy spy novels he found in the bookstore a few years back.

“Tick tock.”

“Slow down, parfait, I’ve got this.” It’s something to do with… with law. “It’s a legal thing, right? Like in court cases?”

“Yes, but that’s too vague to get a point.”

Deacon holds his hands out, palms up. “Is it the same as cutting a deal?”

“Nope.” She pops the ‘p’ sound and takes a swig. “Sixteen, twenty five.”

“I’m still winning.” He slouches back. “But if you keep using your degree to pull out obscure jargon, I’m going to have to figure out how to rig the game.”

“It’s not an obscure phrase. Well,” she tilts her head back and forth. “It wasn’t.” And that is the point of the game. “Hmm.”

Deacon thinks back to the certificate he found on the wall, with the unfamiliar name emblazoned in fancy cursive. “Was that really your name?”

She frowns at him.

“The one on your degree,” he says quietly, not wanting to say it aloud. Nora. “It’s not the one everyone calls you.”

Charmer looks genuinely unsure how to respond. The way she looks at him is… searching, somehow, difficult to describe and it makes him feel strangely vulnerable. “Not for very long,” she responds.

She could mean because she changed her last name when she got married, but Deacon doesn’t think that’s it. There’s something else.

“You don’t normally ask me questions like that,” Charmer remarks, giving him an opening.

“You’re always nice enough not to ask me any,” Deacon explains with a shrug. “Figure it’s only polite.”

She looks away, silent, and takes another sip before extending the bottle back toward him. It’s clear: you could if you wanted. I might not give you everything, but you might get something.

He’s caught off guard. He takes the bottle and doesn’t know what to say.

**

**

There are things about the past that Charmer never explicitly says, but they’re clear enough. She’s used to using her femininity as a way to hide her abilities, and it’s one of the few crutches she’s having to remind herself not to use anymore. Sexuality still works - god, does it work for her - but these days, nobody’s stupid enough to assume a lady can’t cut their throat or hurl them over a bridge as easily as a man could, and apparently that’s new and difficult to adjust to.

Deacon knows from the books that who you went to bed with used to be a big deal. The fops in the stands still pretend to go by those old-fashioned rules, trying to hide any flings they have with the lower classes of Diamond City, but really, even then the gender of the people involved just doesn’t matter much. If anything a man and woman are more problematic because of the possibility of accidental pregnancy.

Deacon did not know about how unmarried pregnant women used to be treated. Or, for that matter, men who dated men, or women who dated women. Charmer tells him quietly at the campfire one night when they’re halfway to Quincy and Deacon wonders how a world that had everything at its fingertips, every luxury and necessity, could get hung up on such stupid fucking things.

Charmer teaches him some of the roundabout euphemisms people used to use for these things - confirmed bachelor, unwed mothers - and some of his books make a little more sense now, are a little more concerning than he had first realized.

**

**

Deacon pulls the metal thing out of the rubble and holds it up triumphantly. “This,” he says, interrupting what was previously a very important hunt for glowing mushrooms for something that is much, much more important. “This is the thing. From last week? I was describing it perfectly and you looked at me like I was crazy?”

Charmer looks up from her pack, squinting, then moves a couple steps closer. “Deacon… that’s an egg-beater.”

He looks at the dual-spinny handle turny thing and tries to imagine how the fuck it interacts with an egg. “How do you crack an egg with this?”

“An egg-beater. It’s -” She’s hiding a genuine smile behind her hand, trying not to embarrass him, and he’s too shameless to give a fuck that she thinks he should feel defensive about not knowing this. “You put them in a bowl, and,”

Deacon interrupts her by turning the crank wildly, making some rust crack off in messy little shavings. It’s comically bent out of shape and squeaky. “You’re making that up.”

“I’m not,” Charmer cries out, legitimate tears in her eyes now. “You…” She mimes cracking an egg, too choked up in laughter to speak, and 'dumps’ the egg in an imaginary container. Her hands shake as she pretends to beat them with the weird tool.

Deacon stops cranking the thing he’s still not convinced is an egg beater. “Oh, after they’re cracked open.” That makes more sense. “But why not just use a fork?”

Charmer shrugs helplessly and wipes at her face, gasping for air.

“We’re keeping this,” Deacon whispers meaningfully. “It’s clearly an important relic.”

“You-” She heaves in another breath. “You put that back - I can’t -”

“It’s necessary for survival,” Deacon retorts, cranking menacingly at her. “We can’t waste valuable forks stirring up eggs when we’ve got this… this specialized old-world gadget made just for -”

“Stop,” Charmer begs in a squeak, kneeling down and finally sitting on a pile of rubbish in the ruined pantry. She’s hunched over and still wiping at her face, taking deep, slow breaths in an effort to cool down. Deacon realizes with a lurch that he genuinely wants to move in and kiss her. Stifling panic, he puffs out a sigh of resignation and stuffs the egg-beater in with the mushrooms, turning away and heading down the stairs to see if there’s anything worth collecting in the basement.

**

**

“Hey, hey, stay with me.” Deacon crouches over her and holds the third stimpack to thigh, counting down the seconds in his head until he can use it without risking giving her pulmonary failure. Her skin is deathly pale and he’s weighing the benefits of those extra twenty-six seconds versus just jabbing her now.

“Make sure it’s dead,” Charmer says again, and Deacon shakes his head and waves that idea away impatiently with his free hand.

“Half its head is blown off, it’s,” he twists around just enough to prove he’s looking at the deathclaw, that it’s definitely dead, before turning back to her. “Don’t worry about that. Just talk to me, okay? Tell me,” Nineteen, eighteen. “Tell me about being a lawyer. It’s really boring, right? A lot of studying?”

Charmer coughs and makes a pained face, slouching further against the tree and tilting her head back up to look at what leaves are left on it.

“No, no, hey,” Deacon nudges her. “Did you put people in jail or did you keep them from going to jail? Those are different kinds of lawyers, right?”

“I didn’t,” she says softly, nine, eight, seven. “I wish you’d stop asking about it.”

He doesn’t know what that means. He’s not sure if she’s making sense. Three, two. “One more stim,” he says, and jabs her again, watches the wince in her eyes as she takes a deep breath and arches just a little toward him, fingers curling, and they’re going to make it through this one. They will.

**

They hole up in a church that night to rest and she sets their sleeping bags next to each other, no space in between. When she turns to her side and presses her back against his arm he lets himself accept that he wants this. That he wants this and he’s terrified.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some chapters are going to have their own specific tags/warnings.
> 
> This chapter involves repressed mourning.

“Dress rehearsal,” she says as she passes the canteen back to him.

“The practice run for something. No idea why it’s called that, though.”

“Fair enough.” She bites her lip, then grins suddenly. “Prom.”

“No clue,” he admits, and she licks her finger and draws up another point for herself in midair.

**

**

In the Dugout, the runner’s late with the intel and a Diamond City guard on the Institute’s payroll has possibly been tipped off. Charmer hides the folder by pressing it to Deacon’s chest and following after it, clambering into his lap and pressing her mouth to his. It’s an acting kiss, one close enough to shield his disbelieving expression from view, lewd-looking enough to keep anyone from bothering them. The guard, who Deacon definitely recognizes from a suspect list Des provided him with last week, makes a disgusted face at them before passing them by and continuing through the bar, asking if anyone has seen someone with ‘stolen paperwork’.

Deacon slides his hands up the sides of her legs, trying to avoid anywhere too sensitive, coming to rest at the top of her jeans. She makes a delighted giggle that he’s crushed to know is 100% fake and he gets a grip underneath her thighs, hauling her up with him and managing to rummage some caps out of his bag for the beer before stumbling back to their room in the back. Her legs are firm and tight around his waist, locked in a way that keeps her groin from getting too near to his - a blessed courtesy right now, because even when he knows it’s an act, her breath is warm against the skin beneath his ear and he hasn’t been touched anything like this in years. He’s trying not to tremble.

“Key, sweetheart,” she croons as he leans some of her weight against the wall, turning the knob only to find she must have locked it when she scoped it out earlier that night.

“Where is it, parfait?” And shit, that was a mistake - he doesn’t mix his sarcastic pet names with their covers and they’re definitely, definitely supposed to be using covers right now. He shouldn’t be showing any confusion about that. “Is it, um,”

She wriggles in his arms, _Jesus, please, let this end soon,_ but Deacon can still hear the voices of the bar patrons responding thornily to questions, can feel the thick weight of the folder pressed between his chest and Charmer’s _breasts_ , they’re so -

“There,” she giggles again as she pulls the key from her jeans pocket, rattling it a few times before turning it backward in her hands so she can jam it into the knob and unlock the door. “Got it in one!”

“Touchdown!” Deacon crows with an affected drunken loudness, nonsensical and happy, and stumbles them both inside just enough to kick the door shut behind them and turn enough that Charmer’s got enough room to slide off him and get to her feet.

She mutters something he doesn’t catch, intentionally making a bunch of stumbly drunken noise as she straightens and checks the folder to make sure the papers haven’t gotten out of order somehow. She steps backward to the mattress, making a loud squeaking sound as she drops onto it with as much velocity as she can muster. At the same time as the noise, she tugs back the piece of rotting wall panel and slides the folder into it. Good enough for now. Deacon lets out an exhausted sigh and nods silently - _we did it, now we lay low_ \- and takes his time shucking off the letter jacket and hanging it up on the peg. He needs a minute.

Except as he hangs his hat up, he can hear the mattress squeaks as she gets to her feet, and he already knows what’s happening. His heart hammers in his chest as he turns just enough to watch her move toward him, purposefully but slowly, like she’s got an idea that something about this could spook him even if she doesn’t know exactly what it is.

She stands in front of him, head tilted up just that half-inch for the span of a few breaths before she reaches for the back of his neck and pulls him in, pressing their mouths back together. No audience. The taste of her blooms on his tongue, warm and slick all at once, and when she slides her tongue across  his lower lip he shivers and groans and lets her in. He can’t not. Her free hand curls around the fabric of his t-shirt, brushing up against his nipple.

God, he wants this. He’s been hard since she started squirming in the hallway but now it’s so present in his mind. He has to try. His hands cup her face, kissing her back. He pushes down any stray thoughts to pull away for air, take in her expression as fast as he can - aroused, cautious, examining him too, checking him for that thing she thankfully hasn’t identified yet. Deacon plunges back in, hauling her up into his lap until her legs curl around him again, locked at the ankle, and he buries his face in her neck and grinds against her. She lets out a shuddering breath and squeezes him tighter with her thighs. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, and her answering laugh turns into a moan when he walks her to the bed and drops her down, following after, grunting when that vice grip comes back to his waist like she wasn’t done with him yet. Feeling held in place like this is kind of exhilarating considering how much damage she can do, but instead she’s nudging his jaw out of her way with her nose, finding a soft spot on his throat to lick and sink her teeth into, just a little. He shifts his weight to his knees and one hand, palming her breast through her shirt. It’s soft, so fucking soft, and when Barbara was underneath him like this she made the sweetest little moans, smiling up at him and running her fingers through his hair like he was the best thing that ever happened to her. Her eyes were dark and beautiful and the tight curls of her hair looked so perfect against the worn flannel of the sheets, she was so tactile, she-

“Deacon,” Charmer says, and propped above her like this, he can read her body language immediately: concerned. How long was he not paying attention? His hand is still on her breast, but she’s abandoned his throat, laying back instead and studying him. Shit.

“Sorry,” he says, brushing it away, and leans in to kiss her cheek, where the skin is soft and warm. His skin is starting to tingle again from the closeness, from the feeling of her palms sliding up and down his arms. When she unlinks her ankles from the small of his back, he chases back after her, pressing his hips to hers and rocking once, just testing the waters to see if she slows him down or lets him go. Her fingers curl and her nails drag against the sensitive skin of his forearms, making him shudder.

Barbara would-

“Charmer,” he says softly, in hopes of making her more permanent. He’s only in bed with Charmer right now. Just her. Maybe if he can get her to talk, her voice could cement him in the present. “Tell me what you want.”

There’s a weird beat he knows is her trying to figure out his angle, trying to figure out what’s changed, and he prays to god she moves on and leaves it. “Take your shirt off,” she says, and it’s in a low tone he hasn’t heard before. 

Thank god for easy tasks. He sits up obediently, grabbing the hem and drawing it up and over before tossing it into the corner of the room, trying to lean back over her only to get flipped onto his side. She slides down his body, kissing his chest-

Don’t, don’t think-

And then drawing her tongue along his nipple, slow, making him tense up with how badly he wants to be enjoying this, how fucking frustrating it is to be so torn and guilty and wanting and-

“Deacon.”

That’s his name now. That’s him. “Mmm,” he says, and runs his hands up and down her back. He can’t reach anything good from here but he realizes with a jolt that he’s got to get back on top soon, got to start leading things, because if she’s running the show she’s going to realize soon that he lost his hard-on and he does _not_  want to have to explain that. If he can just get worked up again,

“Deacon.”

“Let me,” he says, ignoring the question in her voice and easing her onto her back, checking her expression for anything like ‘no’ and ignoring everything that _is_  there, the concern, the question, all of it. He can buy himself some time to calm down. Deacon starts unbuttoning her shirt from the bottom up, kissing the skin he finds, then licking, and the small jolt of pleasure at her taste is drowned out by everything else, everything he hasn’t let himself think about.

_Your wife is dead._

He’s not pulled out of it by his name this time - just her hand on his cheek, holding him in place, his fingertips shaking over the second-to-last button of her shirt. His eyes sweep over the exposed undersides of her breasts, to her collarbones, her mouth pressed into a thin line, and finally her eyes, which make his gut twist. She’s not buying it.

 _I can’t_ , he wants to say, or _It’s not your fault_ , or _You’re beautiful_ , or _I want to give you everything but I’m broken_. His mouth hangs open and his fingers hover over the buttons, frozen in place for lack of better options before she digs a heel into the mattress and pushes herself to the side by the wall. When he doesn’t move to take the spot next to her, she tugs at his arm and moves him bodily.

He’s shaking and he’s not sure when that actually started. He’s dimly aware he should feel humiliated. You don’t even have to be a good liar to have sex with someone you’re infatuated with, but all his mind can focus on is Barbara’s face and the fact that somewhere, in the back of his mind, he always avoided sex after her and he always knew why and he never admitted it to himself.

And behind him, perfectly still and refusing to help make it worse, is a woman he definitely doesn’t deserve.

“I’m sorry,” he says; the most honest thing he’s said in days. They both know he can’t go rent another room. He could fake a lover’s quarrel, but it’s too likely that a twist like that could turn them into a decent story for people to remember. That’s the last thing they want to be right now. “I can-” And he moves to slide to the floor, but her hand reaches out and takes his arm. Her touch is so light, like she might burn him, and he flinches from the implication. He should just explain. He should just-

“Barbara?” She says quietly.

He swallows and doesn’t respond. The scarred wood of the ceiling isn’t engaging enough. He can see her face.

“Roll onto your side.”

He barely hears her. He doesn’t move.

“Deacon.”

He does it. The far wall is stained and discolored and when he feels her hand curl over his bicep; he waits for it to move, for it to turn into the start of something, but it doesn’t. He doesn’t relax but he starts considering it.

“This is okay,” she says, mostly a question.

After debating the implications of answering, of implying that something else _isn’t_ okay, that there are things he can’t handle… he makes himself nod.

Her hand squeezes his arm lightly, reassuring. He takes a deep breath and forces it out slowly. “Then it’ll be this,” she says finally, and shifts on the lumpy mattress until she’s comfortable, her body far enough from his that he can barely feel any warmth radiating from it, just the one point of contact. The feel of her skin is still burning at his fingertips and if he lets himself think back he can still hear the sound of her voice just moments ago, and his stomach lurches again with a mix of arousal and terrible guilt.

She’s being too good to him. No beautiful woman deserves to be rejected like this. And he sure as shit doesn’t deserve this level of patience and understanding, when he’s kept her in the dark about so much. She deserves better.

The hand is nice. It’s warm and smooth and it’s just a little weight on him, just a bit. He waits twenty minutes or so until her breathing evens out, and then another five for when she actually falls asleep. When he moves onto his back again, still keeping his distance, her forearm slides across his chest and lays there and he could almost cry from relief.


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn’t know what happens now, but he’s got a good guess.

They pack up in the morning like nothing’s happened. The folder goes in the pack with the ammo and Deacon leans against the bar before they leave, using his cover’s embarrassed grin to ask if they made too much of a scene last night. His slightly self-conscious but mostly smug affect works, and the guy on day shift says it wasn’t anything they haven’t seen before, and not to worry about it.

They head just a bit northwest to get the folder to the dead drop before heading back to Sanctuary. By lunch time Deacon’s pretty sure the experience is over with, that he’s gotten out without making too much of an ass himself or making Charmer think too much less of him. Except when they hunker down in Drumlin Diner and pull out their meals, Charmer’s eyeing him with that examining look of hers. She’s not sizing him up to make a move on him now, though, so he has no idea what it means. He pushes the anxiety down and focuses on the Brahmin meat. Not much further to go.

**

“Stay,” she says when he helps bring her bags into her house at Sanctuary, and he freezes. She kicks her boots off and undoes her belt, takes off her chest piece, but the rest of her clothes are still solidly on her as she drops onto the bed and moves to the side against the wall, making room for him.

He doesn’t understand. She’s smart enough to know that trying again will just be awkward again, will be - he doesn’t understand.

He shuts the door and takes his boots off. His hat, scarf, his sunglasses. He looks at the floor as he crosses the room, sits on the edge of the mattress, lays down. His skin is aching to be touched again but his insides are practically eating themselves, worried, not sure what she’s going to ask him to do.

“Stop means stop,” she says, eyes already closed, and hooks her hand around his upper arm. “And if you wanna leave, or never do this again, that’s fine.” She shifts until she’s just a little closer, her shins brushing against the side of his calf, cheek nuzzled against the worn fabric of his bulky denim jacket.

Snuggling. They’re snuggling. She’s relaxing into a nap, and he’s supposed to stay here with her. _Gets_ to, if he’s honest with himself.

“It’s just this,” he says, more or less echoing what she’d said the night before.

“No more of that,” she confirms, calm as you like. He can look down himself and see the top of her head, hair messy and perfect, pillowed by his arm. He can smell her. Soon enough the warmth from her body is going to soak through his clothes, to his leg and his arm. He fights back the grateful sigh that would give away far too much and holds still, relaxes for her, falls asleep before she does.

** 

He goes back to his room to sleep that night, but the next night, she tells him to stay again.

This time there’s no huge bulky farmer’s jacket. His t-shirt is the perfect level of barrier, and her hands never go anywhere interesting. ( _A perfect gentle-lady,_ his mind provides with a weird sort of sarcastic humor.) He sleeps through the night with her hand splayed across his stomach, the warmth of her forearm across his ribs, and when she sighs in her sleep and rolls the other way, he allows himself the luxury of scooting closer to the warmth of her back. She hums contentedly, not waking up. Something in his chest makes an answering swelling feeling.

**

He slips out the back window in the morning and takes the long way to his own room before sunup. Sanctuary’s going to twig sooner or later, but he’s going to put that inevitability off for at least one more day.

**

Charmer doesn’t treat him any differently in front of the others. She tasks him like anybody else when he says he’s got a few hours, and she still never puts him with the crops, knowing how much he hates it. He takes a shift alone by the bridge and thinks over the past few days, about HQ and the folder full of package names, about Dez and the others, about Barbara. He only manages to linger on those last thoughts for about twenty seconds, but that’s fifteen seconds more than he used to be able to manage.

“Kinda weird seeing you so many days in a row,” Nick remarks behind him. Deacon looks over his shoulder and smiles. “The Institute blows up and everything goes upside-down.”

Deacon pouts. “Getting sick of looking at me? I was meaning to get a new face anyway.”

“Seem to be getting by fine on the one you’ve got.” Nick looks at Deacon’s expression, perfectly schooled into mild confusion, and arches a brow. “You might be a professional liar, but you’re talking to a professional detective.”

Deacon shrugs as if it’s nothing and leans back in his chair again. “Anyone else catch on?”

“Most people aren’t patrolling at three in the morning, so not yet.” He levels a look at him. “No idea why you two are bothering to keep it under wraps, but that type of thing ain’t my business.”

“Guess not.” He kicks his feet up onto the rock he’s been using as a footstool and scratches his chin. “I’m not too worried, though. You’ve never been one to blab.”

“You have no idea,” Nick murmurs, and trudges back toward the campfire.

**

Deacon still doesn’t completely understand her angle, but he knows a pattern when he sees it. Charmer doesn’t escalate. She doesn’t ever pry or leave intentional openings to get answers. Deacon feels like he’s slowly getting addicted to the way her skin moves against his, soft and sleep-warm. He decides he’ll continue trying to work it out, but should also probably do something to make sure it keeps happening.

**

As soon as it’s dark, he taps on her window that faces the woods. Charmer lifts it open; he climbs in and immediately takes his shoes off.

She looks pleased that he came to her this time. Maybe impressed.

“I could give you a back rub,” he says quietly. “If you wanted.”

She tilts her head, clearly examining the offer, and he can tell the moment she determines it’s exactly as simple as he’s put it. She turns her back to him, shucks off her flannel shirt and tank top, and gets comfortable on top of the blankets, knees together and toes, he notices, curling in suppressed pleasure. He lets himself smile a little, crawling onto the bed and straddling her lower back. He didn’t think to get cooking oil or anything, but she doesn’t seem to care.

Her skin is smooth and cool, warming as he begins to lean into it with the heels of his palms. The muscle doesn’t surprise him, but the long, drawn-out sighs of contentment he gets when he works her neck are an unexpected bonus. She makes quiet little contented moans as he strokes up and down to warm her up, every time he leans his weight into it, every time he works her shoulders.

Time melts a little. When his hands are aching he leans back, scooting off of her and sitting on the edge of the bed. She hums to herself and sits up - he listens as she leans down and picks her tank top off the floor, pulling it back on before laying down.

“That was nice,” she murmurs warmly. She’s left room for him.

“Yeah.” He shucks down to his long johns and shirt and lays down next to her, still a little relieved when she curls a hand around his far shoulder but doesn’t move in for more. Her eyes are lidded and almost sleepy, and he can’t help but puff up a little at realizing that _he_ did that; made her feel that good.


	4. Chapter 4

After the egg beater, Deacon dedicates a pocket to weird items he can’t identify. It’s not hard to do - some things are pervasive in the rubble of any given factory or home, and while a lot of them have become re-purposed over the centuries to be convenient doorstops or just melted down for scrap, they have to have been something once.

“Twist-tie,” Charmer says with obvious amusement, smiling at the small wire thing Deacon’s holding up.

“This is _not_ for a tie,” Deacon argues. “Not even a bowtie.”

She laughs. He loves that sound lately. “You twist it around a plastic bag, like a bread bag, to keep it closed.”

“Oh.” Deacon looks at it, assessing, and decides this makes sense. “We usually wrap wires with them now.”

“We used to have specialized tape for that, but I don’t think it survived as well as duct tape did.” She scratches her chin. “But if you ever find thin black, rubbery-feeling tape… that’s what that is.”

“When you get tired of this adventuring business, have you ever thought of doing appraisals at an antique shop?”

Charmer laughs again. Two in a day.

**

**

They’re in an apartment taken over by raiders, now cleared, when the memory pops up in his mind. He makes a beeline for the kitchen, pawing through the mess and looking.

“What’s come over you?” Charmer calls from the other room. She’s still picking the bodies clean. (And how easily she does that still both scares him and impresses him.)

“I’m looking for the musket balls,” Deacon calls back. The drawers have long since rotted through, so he has to kneel on the floor and sort through the mess of spatulas and rusted forks in a pile between the old fridge and the even older cook stove. “My…” He coughs through the dust. “Personal appraiser is gonna tell me… fuck, come on, there’s gotta be some.”

“ _Musket_ balls?” Charmer appears in the doorway, watching him with obvious confusion as she wipes blood off of a particularly nice-looking shotgun she has apparently decided is hers now.

“I always see ‘em in kitchens. Not every kitchen, but… if I ever see them, it’s in kitchens, and there’s always a little pile of them…”

“For the upcoming revolution, clearly.”

“Careful now, you’re gonna be the one that has to explain your weird ancient cultu- AH! Yes!” He holds two up triumphantly, one immediately slipping past his finger and thumb and dropping loudly to the floor.. Charmer snorts as he scrabbles to pick it up so he can hold them both out to her. “Well?”

“Kitchens,” she echoes, and rolls them between her fingers. “There’s not a lot of sugar around here, so I guess nobody bakes dessert pies anymore…”

“For that extra hint of iron in every bite?”

She rolls her eyes. “They’re pie weights, for when you blind-bake a crust.”

“Charmer, I think you’re having a stroke.”

She feigns a kick at his head, and he pretends to dodge it. “When you make a pie with a sweet crust, you bake the crust on its own for a while… but it wants to rise out of its shape and go in all directions. So you’d put the crust in the oven with some of these placed along the bottom, to weigh it down and make sure it baked in the right shape.”

“And you had special… little…” He wiggles his fingers at the tiny things. “Balls. For that.”

“Some people did, yes.” She looks at them critically. “Now they might be more useful as slingshot ammo.”

“Or selling to gullible Minutemen who think they’re civil war artifacts.”

“Don’t you _dare_.”

**

**

Charmer stretches next to him, making a vaguely displeased sound. Deacon is propped on his elbow in seconds.

“What’s up?”

She’s still waking up, lips pressed together in displeasure. “Water,” she says finally, and before she can put more of a sentence together, he’s on his feet. He finds the jug in the corner of the room and rummages until he finds a clean glass to pour into. When Deacon sees her contented smile as he walks back with it, he realizes that he wants to make her smile like that every day, and that he is in real, real trouble.

**

**

She doesn’t keep her nails long, so when they scratch lightly up and down his scalp it’s just sharp enough to make him shiver, not sharp enough to hurt. He tenses and trembles with it and something about that makes him relax when she _stops_ , switching from her nails to the pads of her fingertips. The slow little patterns she draws give him some of the best sleep of his life.

**

**

Charmer wears soft shirts to bed. He burrows into the back of them at night, one arm slung over her hips, breathing in her smell and wondering how he got so lucky.

When she gets up he doesn’t tend to talk much. (They never explicitly talk about it.) But one morning he sits across from her at the small breakfast table in the corner, holding out his hand and gesturing for her foot.

“What?” She says, frowning a little.

“Please,” Deacon tries.

She leans back and rests her ankle in his palm. When he digs this thumbs into her arches she bites her lip and sighs. He works through the uncomfortable desire that brings up in him, stroking deeply until she’s relaxed and smiling and letting her head tip back.

**

**

The morning Charmer holds her front door open for him to go out for the day, he knows what it means. It means _stop pretending to the whole settlement that we aren’t together_. That’d be a gesture he could really appreciate if it didn’t mean giving up a personal secret. He’s always kind of attached to those. Even the fresh ones.

Only Piper and Sturges are eating breakfast at the campfire when he steps out, but he knows news spreads fast and there can never be enough gossip. He plunks down next to Sturges and takes up a plate and fork, helping himself to some radstag.

“Morning,” Piper says pointedly. Deacon makes sure he’s open-mouth chewing his food when he looks up to her and gives her a perky wave.

**

**

Within the hour, Preston approaches him by the generators for a quiet congratulations that is followed by the most _brotherly_  if-you-hurt-her-I-will-hunt-you-down speech Deacon has ever been the focus of. Deacon practices his active listening face and nods through it.

“Roger wilco,” Deacon says finally, and Preston gives him an examining look. “Trust me, this is my joking-but-actually-serious voice.”

“Better be,” Preston says with a smile. Deacon gives him points for actually making him flinch for a second.

**

**

MacCready’s not so subtle.

“My _man._ ”

Deacon grits his teeth and forces a smile, altering his trajectory from the river to the bunkhouses. He saw Codsworth float in there a few minutes ago and he’s definitely going to be a necessary tool for ensuring this conversation does not go the way Mac wants. “Hey, how’s the leg?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, _forget_  the leg.” MacCready claps his hand on Deacon’s far shoulder, tugging him in for what can only be classified as a Male Bonding Embrace. “How are _you?”_

“I’m-”

“ _Details!_ ” MacCready hisses.

“Oh, that’s not…” Deacon trails off, looking around and conveniently spotting a chromey glimmer in the nearby window. MacCready follows his gaze and makes a face. Clearly these things cannot be discussed in front of the lady’s robot butler. It just wouldn’t be right. “Um, everything’s fine,” Deacon summarizes chastely. MacCready nods and accepts the abbreviated response, letting him go and heading toward the bridge. Thank god.

**

**

Hancock surprises him by not saying a _damn thing_.

**

**

Sometimes when he and Charmer are in bed, Deacon can smell the heat between her legs. He’s not sure if he can smell it because she’s particularly… _wanting_ , in that moment, or because he’s just so close to her. He’s trying not to let it drive him nuts.

She never tries to initiate anything more than a rearrangement of limbs as they fall asleep or just lay together. She never looks at him like she wants him to start something.

So he doesn’t say anything about it. Just carries on with the knowledge that even if she’s not trying to get it from _him_ , at least some part of her wants more than he can provide.

**

**

He’s not allowed to lie to her when they’re alone. He can lie to others, even lie to her when it’s in front of 'company’, but when he gets too close to old habits and starts turning a mission story into a spun yarn, she knows it, and she starts to untangle from the mess of arms and legs until he’s left cold.

“The raider didn’t run,” he corrects, trying not to sound as scared as he is. “He hid in the garage and tried to get us later. Glory took him down.”

This seems to be enough. He can’t see her face in the dark, but she moves closer, forgiving him, and he doesn’t need a repeat lesson. He’s learned the rule.

**

**

It leads to problems, though.

“What do you want to today?” she asks, leaning just far enough off the mattress to reach her extra pair of clothes.

 _To stay in bed with you. To try kissing you again, to see if I can do it. I want to be able to._ Deacon weighs his options and elects to button her shirt up for her, not speaking, trying to show obedience in another way. She looks confused at first, but he can see the moment in her expression when she understands he’s trying to follow the rules but not give something away. She runs the backs of her knuckles against his cheek.

“I want to check on Abernathy,” she says, turning the question to herself. “Those guys are good people, but they can’t maintain their defenses for shit.”

“They can’t, Deacon agrees, and that seems to settle it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out on [tumblr](http://buzzbites.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

In the safety of her bedroom, she tells him about the first movie ever: a train heist.

Her hands gesture out different scenes in the dim light, doing her best to remember as she goes. He helps by filling in the gaps with unlikely scenarios and she laughs, encouraging it. Together they decide on a revised story where the robbers end up getting surprised by some radroaches, who are sentient and have Curie’s accent. They escape and blow all their money on noodles. Charmer’s body shakes next to his as she laughs and he’s grinning so hard his face aches.

After they turn off the lights for bed, her lips brush against the back of his neck. It’s not a kiss, not exactly, but it’s close, and her arms hold him so tightly. He knows. He knows for sure he’s not enough.

**

**

Sanctuary has mostly gone back to normal. MacCready occasionally winks at Deacon in this meaningful way that’s slightly uncomfortable, but Preston seems to know that Charmer isn’t the type to need someone protecting her. The settlers have always stayed out of his way. There’s one odd moment alone with Hancock where it seems like he wants to ask something, but picks up the basket of corn instead, lugging it down the road.

It doesn’t take a spy to figure out why a guy might be acting funny after finding out a beautiful woman’s suddenly taken. Deacon sighs and continues cleaning his gun.

**

**

“Blanket,” she murmurs, a few minutes after they’ve curled up together one afternoon.

This is a common occurrence now. Deacon makes a small regretful sound as he pulls away from her, rummaging under the bed until he finds the extra quilt and arranging it on top of both of them.

“Mm,” she says as he comes back, directing him until his nose is brushing the spot between her collarbones, and her arm is slung comfortably across his shoulders.

“S'nice,” Deacon agrees, and considers tilting his head up just enough to press his lips to her throat. He swallows, giving it too much thought before he can stop himself, and feels the tension up his spine as he makes himself hold still. The risk of failing her again, of making an ass of himself and making her feel rejected… can that really be worth it?

But she _needs_  it. There’s no question left on that; most everyone in the world yearns to get off with another person. She’s definitely one of them, and on a less important note, he’s having trouble pretending he isn’t, too, even if there’s some kind of guilt-ridden panic attack he’s got to figure out how to work around when he’s doing it.

Deacon takes a deep breath, cataloging the warmth of her skin, their combined scent that’s permeated the bed now… she’s still awake, breaths uneven but perfectly calm as he shifts under her arm. He only has to move down a little to be closer to the warm curves of her breasts, and he slides a hand to her hip, stroking circles with his thumb. He can feel the moment she understands what he’s telling her. She doesn’t move, doesn’t stop him. Just breathes differently.

_Now. Do it now._

He nuzzles her breast through the flannel, feeling himself stiffen a little bit at her slow intake of breath. God, he wants her. He presses himself along the length of her body, wrapping his arm around her hips to pull them against his chest as he mouths at her nipple. It hardens under his lips and his hips stutter against nothing. Her breathing’s a little quicker now but it’s becoming harder to gauge, because his heartbeat is hammering in his ears, making his hand clutch into a fist at the small of her back.

“Deacon,” she says quietly above him, and this time it doesn’t mean ‘stop’. He pulls his hands between them, pushing her shirt up enough to capture her nipple in his mouth and suck. This time when she moans and his hips jerk from the sound of it, her thigh is firm and strategically placed, giving him something to move against. He suppresses most of his whimper and grinds needfully, one hand coming up to cup her other breast and squeeze it. It’s suddenly become a furnace under this quilt and he tugs it down, looking up belatedly to make sure that’s okay, and her face is… god, her eyes are so dark. She’s so ready, she’s not hiding it at all, she wants… she wants _him_ , she wants…

It’s not surprising that she isn’t Barbara. He wasn’t lying to himself as he was touching her. So why is it suddenly so hard to look away from her, to go back to…?

“You’re shaking.” Her eyes are still dark but their shape has changed. Her expression. No.

“I’m okay,” he says, and nuzzles the space between her breasts, kneading the one still in her hand. It feels good. It feels _good_. Why is he losing it? Her thigh is moving away, and he fights the urge to pull it back. That would be rude. He needs to show her he can give her this, that he can do this for her. When her hand cups the back of his neck, he feels himself tremble against it. She really wasn’t kidding.

“Deacon. You’re not okay.”

“I want you,” Deacon says softly, eyes shut tight.

“I know. I know.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know.”

**

**

Charmer asks him to tag along on a check-in to Drumlin Diner. The woman and her son are alone there, but have no significant defenses and no intention of moving shop. Charmer can’t move that proverbial mountain, it seems, so she just visits every few weeks to make sure it’s doing okay.

Deacon suspects the owner has some misguided idea about a familiar area with no outside influences being good for her kid. He’s clearly gone off something cold turkey that’s still got a bit of a hold on him. He’d mention this to Charmer, but he has a feeling she can see it too.

They hike back to Sanctuary in the dark instead of making camp. Everyone’s in bed by the time they’re on the bridge, other than those on guard - they give her a nod as she passes and she nods back.

(Some, who knew what she did to the Institute, used to salute her. She put an end to it.)

Charmer doesn’t say ‘good night’ to him when they pass his room, so he follows her to her house and opens the door for her. He waits obediently as she readies for bed and finally gestures him over. He takes off his sunglasses and boots and jeans and turns out the light, feeling his way to her side as his eyes adjust.

She lays on her back and lets him move to her. There’s a few minutes of silence as they feel each other’s bodies relax. Finally, she tilts her head to look at him. “So how’re you liking your Des-mandated vacation so far?”

Deacon fakes a 'pondering’ look. “Okay,” he says finally. “You’re definitely better company than Carrington.”

“High praise,” she says flatly, and he takes a breath and goes for it.

“I’m thinking about getting you a present,” he says. He wasn’t really expecting how surprised she looks.

“Really?”

He shrugs. “Isn’t that what friends do?” Because he’ll be damned if he can’t worm his way out of putting words to whatever this is, even now. “They like making each other happy.” He tucks his head against her arm to hide his face. “Trying to figure out which you’d like best. Do you like historical re-enactors?”

A beat. “Deacon.”

“I mean, there’s tall, dark, and naïve on the table too. But that one doesn’t seem your type.” Deacon keeps his voice quiet and pleasant. “Lots of options, actually. I’m less interested in surprising you and more interested in getting you what you want.”

And _what you want_ is a very deliberate choice of words; Charmer’s hand is still on his shoulder, chest taking perfectly even breaths that tell Deacon she’s taking them that way on purpose. Hiding her reaction.

When he really pisses her off, like the lying, she pulls away. She’s not doing that now. He waits as patiently as he can, rubbing his cheek against the fabric of her tank top and making a show of not pushing the subject. Finally, her nails brush against the back of his head.

“You know you don’t have to get me gifts,” she says finally, a little bit of a question.

“I know. I just want you to be happy.” He meant it to be like the other lines, cleanly-delivered and carrying a meaning, but it comes out - it comes out wrong, it comes out _sad_ , and he grits his teeth and doesn’t move when she taps his jaw, inviting him to look up. She sighs.

“I feel like you’re trying to give me an apology gift. When you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But you’d like it?” He’s pretty sure. He’s a spy for a reason.

She doesn’t lie to him when they’re alone. She says nothing, continuing to stroke her fingers down his neck.

**

**

Deacon likes working on the northeast fence; it always means time to himself. Codsworth trusts him to get what he needs from the meticulously-organized tool section in the scrap house without disturbing his system, and it’s far enough from the main thoroughfare that nobody ever spots him working and offers help. Sometimes Dogmeat will might come over and check up on his progress, though, chewing briefly on the posts before being told that’s not what a good assistant does.

“Rrrrm,” Dogmeat says in greeting, a few seconds before Deacon hears footsteps. Heavy boots but light build. Medium stride. Hancock.

“I don’t suppose somebody finally found a post-hole digger,” Deacon says without looking away from his work.

“I still think Jane made those things up,” Hancock mutters, using what Deacon likes to think of as Charmer’s ‘Commonwealth Name’. “Anyway.” He drops a rattling bucket on the ground next to the pile of stakes. “Codsworth says you looted the last of the long nails from the shelf, so he dug up some more for ya.”

Deacon grins. “Thanks, pal.” He scratches Dogmeat’s side as he comes to sniff at the bucket. “Pre-rusted, just how I like 'em.”

Hancock gives a little half-snort before turning to walk away, but something stops him. “Hey,” he says finally.

Deacon’s been waiting for this. He knew he wouldn’t have to create an opening - Hancock was bound to make one himself. He doesn’t even need all the Railroad research on Goodneighbor’s mayor to know he’s loyal to a fault, and he’d only get this quiet if something was really eating at him.  "What’s up?“

"It’s Jane,” Hancock says. Deacon’s a little impressed with how quickly he’s gotten to the point.

“Jane?” He lets himself sound distracted.

“I know she can take care of herself, but I just wanna make sure… with your work and all, I just wanna make sure you’re planning on sticking around for the long haul.”

“And that it’s not a long _game_ ,” Deacon finishes, intentionally misunderstanding.

Hancock puts a hand up. “That ain’t what I meant.” He sighs. “I just … we all care about her, alright?”

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere.” Deacon gives him the hundred-watt smile. “It’s not like you think, though.”

Hancock squints, obviously caught off-guard. “Huh?”

“Oh, we’re not fucking.” And Deacon’s honed this gift for so long it’s second nature - wrap up the truth and present it like it’s the most suspect bullshit you’d ever hear. “I’m still getting over the loss of my childhood sweetheart. I just can’t move on, you know?”

Hancock’s eyes narrow further; he knows he’s being fucked with, although not in the way that he thinks. "You don’t have to-”

“No, I’m serious. Actually, are you busy later? She might be able to make good use of you.” Deacon sets the hammer down to rub at his chin, looking the other man up and down to size him up. “I mean, I know you’re a mayor and all, but I bet you’re not above taking a little direction.”

And just like that, Deacon sees the succession of reactions play across Hancock’s face inside of a fraction of a second: surprise, suspicion, anger. Then, less obvious, resignation. Then, as Deacon holds in place and doesn’t push the joke, reluctant hope. “I ain’t never seen somebody be such a shitty winner,” Hancock says finally. The gravelly voice makes it kind of dark.

“I didn’t realize there was a competition,” Deacon replies flippantly. “But hey, I’ll share the trophy with ya.” And there’s another flicker of anger, this time bigger, darker - Hancock really doesn’t like Charmer being referred to as a prize. _Good_ , Deacon thinks. He shouldn’t. “Swing by hers sometime and tell 'er I sent ya. Whatever pants you wear, get ready to scuff the knees up.”

And it’s clear it’s not even the insinuation that Hancock would like being on his knees that’s pissing him off so much. It’s that Deacon’s waving Charmer in his face, dangling her. And Deacon admits it’s a little meaner than he usually gets, but sometimes you have to test a couple key things before you’ll let them near someone really important to you.

“Fuck off,” Hancock says finally, and Deacon makes a comically slanted frown and shrugs helplessly. Hancock gives him one last leveling stare before turning on his heel.

“Thanks for the help,” Deacon calls after him, rattling the bucket of nails.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Deacon watches Hancock walk away. He waits a few moments, then wraps the extra nails he took this morning in a rag and stashes them in the cooler by the bush. He gets to his feet, stretches, and heads back to his room.


	6. Chapter 6

“Dust jacket.”

Deacon shoots her a look. “Bluff,” he counters.

“Nope!” She strides past him on the road southeast, grinning at him as she goes. “It was a real thing.”

Damn it. That’s _two_ points to her; this new aspect to the game has only fucked him over so far. “Okay. So what was it?”

“It’s the name for the paper cover around a book.” Charmer looks incredibly pleased with herself, which is probably because he got the last three without any effort. Seeing her happy makes him grin without meaning to, and she spots it. “What?”

“I just like the idea of pre-war folk wanting to keep their books all cozy and safe.” He takes on a motherly voice: “Bundle up, Tolstoy! Don’t catch a cold, Nietzsche!” Something moves just out of his sight line. Deacon holds up his hand to stop her, but she’s already turned away - he leans far enough to grab her elbow and she freezes immediately.

He loses it for a moment, but then it moves again, distinguishing itself from the trees: a radstag. It’s turned away from them, nibbling at some greenery a dozen meters off.

“Lemme take you out to lunch,” Deacon murmurs, leveling his rifle. “My treat.”

**

Deacon’s usually fine with Blamco, but he’s not some shmuck from the Diamond City stands - he turns the stag into steaks and gets them on the campfire by the time Charmer finishes with the tents and the defenses.

“Smells great.”

“The waiter says they’re out of mashed potatoes and broccoli, but he’s gonna make sure it comes off our bill.”

Charmer grins and sits next to him, ignoring the dry log he set out for her nearby. “How long’re you gonna need at HQ?”

“Not long. Dez is usually pretty concise with her updates.”

Watching the meat sizzle in the pan, Charmer tilts her head to the side and attempts her best impression of Desdemona: “Deacon. Nice to see you. We’re hoping you have some ideas on the next secret underground organization we can blow up.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky. Think the Masons are still in business?”

**

**

“Deacon. Looks like the vacation has done you some good.”

“Got a tan, bought some souvenirs, the works.” Deacon beams at Dez as he drops down into the chair she’s arranged in front of hers. “Getting the film developed as we speak. I hope you’ve set aside a few hours for the slideshow next Thursday.”

Her grin is more indulgent than usual - she really _is_  pleased that he took some time off. “Charmer’s not with you?”

Of course the answer is that she isn't, but what Dez really wants is a reason _why_. “Anything you need her to know, I’ll write it on my arm so I don’t forget.”

“Mmhmm.” Dez was weirdly thorny when Charmer declared, immediately after the Institute went down, that she’d be taking a break from missions. Deacon had pointed out that Charmer had needed to befriend like half the scientists to get the intel they needed, to find Patriot and get the synths out, and he’s pretty sure that normal sane people usually feel kind of funny after killing a bunch of people they’ve gotten to know.

Deacon’s ready to get into that argument again if he has to, but he’d really prefer to talk business: “How’re we doing? Was Carrington right?”

“He was, unfortunately.” Desdemona leans back in her chair and sighs deeply. “There are an unknown number of synths who escaped the explosion but were teleported to random areas of the Commonwealth. The only thing we can be halfway sure of is that they’re scattered individually.”

“Probably not the rescue they were hoping for, huh?” Deacon’s mouth quirks into a sad grin. “Charmer’s volunteered Garvey and Curie to be a traveling welcoming committee.”

At least Dez doesn’t seem surprised or annoyed that Deacon told her about the post-explosion intel. If she’s finally in a place where she can trust his decisions, Deacon’s work life just got a whole lot easier. “Why those two?”

“Ever since we got the credit for burying the Institute, the Commonwealth is more trusting of us.”

“A given.”

“So are the everyday Minutemen. And Preston’s been pro-synth independence since he met Nick, if not earlier. Curie’s a synth who’s never had contact with the Institute, so she’s the easiest to clear,  _plus_  she’s dying to meet ‘real scientists’.” He crooks his fingers in the air to do quotes.

Desdemona looks at him calculatingly. “Carrington and Tom,” she deduces.

“You betcha. Can we finally get some of that cross-training I’ve been begging for? She knows pre-war medicine and already learned how we rig things to work topside, so I don’t think her learning curve is gonna be too steep.”

“You vouch for both of them, I take it.”

He looks her in the eye. “I do.”

She takes a breath. “Your instincts have gotten us some valuable people recently. I’ll arrange a dead drop near Sanctuary to deliver the coordinates as we decipher them… at least do me the favor of picking up and decoding those yourself, instead of teaching someone from the outside?”

A great compromise. Charmer doesn’t have to do a thing. “Done. I recommend somewhere a decent ways from Red Rocket - Strong camps there and he gets grumpy when snacks wake him up from his afternoon nap.”

Desdemona nods, and straightens a little bit. She doesn’t like that she has to do it, but she’s about to ask him for more. He knows that face.

“Something nagging at you?”

“I’m trying to respect Charmer’s sudden need to… tend to other business… but it’s becoming a harsh reality that we don’t have the resources, or even physical room, to house everyone we’ve saved from the Institute.”

Deacon’s brows come together. Desdemona used to be one of the biggest proponents of getting the synths _out of the Commonwealth_  as fast as possible, but he can see what she’s angling toward. “You want to put some in her settlements.”

“Even if it’s just temporary,” Desdemona says quickly. “The Institute may no longer be a concern, but I’m well aware that there could be anti-synth feelings among the common population. Perhaps even among those she’s taken in.”

“Charmer takes in just about everybody,” Deacon points out.

“Are there vacancies? Some settlements that might be more open to not asking questions?”

She wants details. He has a few, but he sees no reason to give them up. “I’ll ask her about it and get back to you.”

“Please,” Desdemona says. “I realize our biggest goal has been accomplished, but our numbers are lower than ever and more people depending on us than we can even count right now.”

Deacon smiles. “Relax. We’ll work it out.”

**

Deacon leaves HQ and meets back up with Charmer at Power Noodles, where she’s already halfway through her bowl. He sits down next to her and she smiles without looking up; the Diamond City security outfit has always amused her.

“How’s Piper?” he asks.

“Good. Excited to hear Nick’s coming back to the city for a while.” She sips from her bowl. “How’s the family?”

“Tired, but good.” He picks some chopsticks from the jar and gestures to Takahashi. “Growing every day.”

“House starting to bust at the seams?” She already knows what he’s going to ask. Of course.

“Little bit,” he admits. “If you don’t mind, maybe-”

“No problem.” She picks her chopsticks back up as she tilts her knee out to nudge his thigh. “Some places are better suited than others, but I’m sure we can shuffle some things around.”

Deacon nods. He knows at least three quarters of the territories she’s staked out, and it hasn’t passed by his notice that she’s rearranged people based on the needs of the settlements. Spread the farmers around. Mix them with the folks who know how to hold a gun. He’s also seen some people move for reasons that weren’t so clear. He knows at least one settlement that’s definitely full of  _accepting_ people.

“What about the island?” he asks. “The one you sent the kid to.” One of the few to be given a real name by the Institute: Shaun. Little guy almost didn’t make it out with them before everything blew to high hell.

Charmer’s hands go still, holding the bowl an inch above the counter before finally placing it down. “I’ve got that one how I like it.”

“Your land, your call,” Deacon says mildly. He’s definitely got to start reeling it back, because apparently he just stepped in something. It’s not impossible she’s overprotective of a kid with no parents, synth or not. “You tell me which spare beds are open. I won’t argue.”

Takahashi plunks a bowl in front of Deacon and he starts to eat. That whole day, V-Day, is a complete haze in his mind - Deacon only vaguely remembers telling Charmer she was amazing, and sort of spilling his guts about where he came from. But he _does_ remember that kid’s face, and how he was clearly just ‘old’ enough to understand that his life was about to be turned upside down and inside out. He’d clutched to Charmer’s hand like he’d already picked out a new parent.

It’d be completely understandable if she’d reacted to that. That’s what being human is.

**

When they wander into Home Plate, she pulls five different sheets of paper from four different places in her pack and explains the code. Information on settlements, who lives there, what they’re good for, who’s shown themselves to be trustworthy. There’s even an indication at skill in hand to hand combat versus firearms. It’s not elegant, but it’s pretty good for something that’s got to be updated so often. She learns new things about them, or they die, or, hell, maybe they turn out to be a synth spy that goes ape shit and have to be taken down.

That one’s been happening recently.

“Two can go to Jamaica Plains. One to Hangman’s Alley, but make sure they know how to fight.” She taps a column of symbols. “I need to figure out whether this guy ever convinced his sister to get away from the Waste, then we’ll know if there are two or three spots at The Castle.”

Deacon’s eyebrows lift. “And Starlight?”

She shakes her head. “Not done yet. Strong’s still carrying the wood over for the roofs.”

“They could help carry.”

“Strong would _hate_ help.” She narrows her eyes a little. “Make do with these five or six spots first. Space out the arrivals however you think is best. You know I don’t care if they’re wiped or not, so long as they know what to say.”

He looks at the codes, at the scribble that’s really a map. Committing the places and numbers to memory. This is so much. Their resources have been so thin lately. “This is really going to help.”

Charmer smiles. “That’s why I’m doing it.” She starts folding up the papers again. “Run back and tell them. I’d like us to head back to Sanctuary together tonight.”

As if he’d ever willingly split up. “Another of those town meeting things?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve got a present coming to my house, or so I’ve heard. It’d be rude not to be there to pick it up.”


	7. Chapter 7

When Charmer likes his behavior, she shows him. On their walk back to Sanctuary she’s quiet, smiling, and when they take a break at the halfway point she sits down and draws him in. She arranges his back against her chest and he relaxes, head tipping back onto her shoulder, jawline brushing her cheek.

He’s fucked up so badly recently but she’s making she he knows she’s not upset. She’s not even making him talk about it. He doesn’t deserve her.

“Gonna fall asleep if I’m not careful,” he murmurs, which is the closest he can get to saying _thank you_ and _I needed this_ and _I never want to move._ She hmms, arms coming loosely around his middle to hug him a little closer.

They stay for a few more minutes.

**

MacCready greets them at the bridge and tells them what little they’ve missed. Strong came by to pick up more planks of wood but he left about half an hour ago. Preston wants to ask her if he’s still tapped for some future project she alluded to.

“Tell him Deacon’s going to be his point of contact on that, please.”

It’s a testament to what the new normal is that MacCready just nods like this makes perfect sense.

Deacon follows her as always. She doesn’t say good night when they reach his room, so they walk past it, past the junk house, to hers, and he gets the door for her. She tips her pack off her shoulders gingerly and waits until she hears the lock to step into his space.

“Hi,” he says, because this is nice. They do most of their cuddling lying down, but with her hands resting at the small of his back and her cold nose brushing against his throat, he could get used to this, too.

“Mmm.” She squeezes him gently when he finally curls his arms around her.

“Campfire dinner should be ready soon. Want me to get us two dishes?”

Charmer’s sigh is a little regretful. “No, go eat with the others. I’ll make something here.” She starts disentangling herself. “Will you do something for me after dinner?”

Getting sent away after being invited in is unprecedented, but Deacon does his best to keep his posture relaxed and roll with it. She was serious about getting back for her ‘present’, and that doesn’t surprise him, not exactly - it’s just that the reality of it is setting in a little more now. “Whatcha need?”

At first she doesn’t answer, crossing the room to go to the window facing the trees. She examines the curtains for a moment, finally tugging the left one back just a few inches. “Clean your guns at the weapons bench before you head to bed.” She turns and smiles for him, calm as you like.

He nods, giving her a joking little salute before slipping out to join the others.

**

Sturges spots him first, jerking his chin up and grinning around a mouthful of stew. Curie follows his gaze and bursts into a smile when she spots him approaching.

“Monsieur Deacon! Are you joining us?”

“You should know I’m liable to show up uninvited when there’s free food involved.” Deacon plunks down on the bench next to her. Curie is interesting - lots of old world knowledge but lots of gaps on the interpersonal stuff. She has a habit of getting into people’s space without meaning to, and it ruffles some people’s feathers and gives others the wrong message. Deacon just likes her. Rare you meet someone with no social facade whatsoever.

“Eet is very good. We are having…” Curie trails off, looking uncertainly across the campfire at Jun, who laughs.

“Stew,” he says, making sure to over-enunciate.

“Oui, I knew _zat_  part, I meant-” She scowls at the quiet ripple of laughter around her. “It is… it is brahmin, but also…”

Preston takes pity on her: “Tatos and gourd.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Garvey. Yes, it is brahmin, with diced tato and gourd.”

Deacon watches as MacCready ladles some into a bowl and leans in to hand it over with a spoon. “Brahmin, huh? So you gave up on that cheese project with ol’ Bessie, Curie?”

“Non! Non, I am still going to try to make cheese… zis is brahmin meat we bought from another settlement.”

“Bessie lives another day, the old hag.” Sturges chuckles.

The only person not speaking is Hancock. He’s not sulking or making some kind of point of it - just hanging back next to MacCready and focusing on his meal, looking into the fire.  The fact that Deacon is sitting and eating with the rest of them is really unusual, and everyone else’s pleasant surprise might be the last piece Hancock needed to reconsider what Deacon said. He wonders if Charmer dropped some hints of her own at some point to spur him along.

Hancock’s smart enough. He’ll have cleaned up beforehand and he’ll be a gentleman, even if he fumbles with the specifics at first. Ever since he took over Goodneighbor he’s proven to be a reliable Railroad ally, keeping the important things quiet while still getting the job-

“…Diamond City?”

Deacon perks his head up, lifting from context clues. “Piper’s good. She’s excited Nick’s coming down soon. I didn’t swing by to see Ellie, but I’m sure some cases have piled up since he’s been here.” He looks around, not surprised that Nick isn’t anywhere to be seen. He’s always been fine volunteering for late shifts and meal shifts, since food and regular rest aren’t high on his priority list.

“How many cases can there be?” Jun’s grinning, proud by proxy: “Jane’s taken down the _Institute_. The kidnappings are over. The Commonwealth hasn’t been this safe in generations…”

“There’s still things to investigate,” Preston points out.

“Married people still cheat,” Marcy supplies. (Due to her baseline level of bitterness, even Deacon’s having trouble gauging if she’s speaking from experience or not.)

Sturges gestures with his spoon. “And dumb kids still run away to join gangs… or to Goodneighbor. No offense, Hancock.”

Hancock looks up from his bowl, smiling faintly. “None taken. We make sure they’re fed and kept outta trouble ‘til Nick comes to pick ‘em up.”

The group ripples with another wave of laughter, and Deacon finally starts to eat.

**

Deacon knows his pistol and rifle are in decent shape, but he’s not about to contradict Charmer when she’s proven herself to always have her reasons. After helping dry a good pile of the dishes and glasses, he lays his weapons on the bench and starts to take them apart. The pistol’s barely disassembled when Preston sidles over, leaning against the side of the house.

“Good time to talk?” Preston asks.

“Perfecto,” Deacon replies, flipping the chamber end-over-end before setting it down. Garvey’s polite to a fault, sometimes, and this isn’t any exception.

“I wanted to apologize, for earlier. I was a little hard on you, and it looks like there was nothing to worry about.”

The whole ‘older brother’ bit? Deacon doesn’t have to fake the unimpressed grin. “You were fine. And, hey, I get it. You care about someone… even if you know they can take care of themselves, you still want to protect them.”

Preston looks relieved at that, and Deacon wonders what it’s like to care so much how every person feels about you. “Exactly. And… on another topic, can I ask you something in confidence?“

"Of course.”

And in scoping the area again, Deacon finally sees it - across the street and going counterclockwise, it goes Charmer’s house, junk house, the bunkhouse with his room. And from Hancock’s vantage point in the bunkhouse to his left on this side of the street, there’ll be plenty of time to see Deacon clean up his things and walk back to his own bed, not Charmer’s house.

If Hancock wanted to check for such a thing.

“So, um, how was Piper?”

Deacon tilts his head. Preston was there at dinner, so he knows she’s fine… the guy’s face is always easy to read, and tonight’s no different. Apprehension, self-consciousness, hope. “Preston, my man.”

Garvey’s cheeks darken a little. “No, I just mean… she went back to Diamond City all by her lonesome, and usually Jane sends us with at least one other-”

“Piper’s a big girl. Made it back just fine.” No need to reveal he didn’t see her in person since he was taking care of other business, so better to push on: “You know, as long as you don’t write it on stone tablets, I’m sure the provisioner that runs to Hangman’s Alley would drop a letter off at her place.”

Preston’s eyes widen like he hadn’t considered this. Poor guy, he’s in pretty deep. “I… I mean, I don’t have anything in particular to say…”

“’Hey Pipes. Bored of the big city yet? I’ve got a vacation home, you know. Called _The Castle.’”_ Deacon spreads his hands apart like the name’s in lights, and Preston rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest.

“It’s not fancy,” he mumbles.

Deacon shrugs as if he has no idea, and _certainly_ didn’t scope the place out a few days after it was cleared. “It’d be a good article,” he points out. “Cover what the Minutemen are up to in the wake of the Institute going down, how recruitment works out… what girl doesn’t love conducting a seaside interview with the militia’s finest bachelor?” Preston’s stuttering is kind of endearing, so Deacon saves him: “Sleep on it.”

“Right.” Preston tugs on the brim of his hat, nodding once before pushing off the side of the house and heading west to start a patrol loop. Deacon watches him go for a while, thinking about Preston’s chances. They’re better than he thinks. Piper doesn’t need smooth, she needs _good_ , and he’s definitely got that.

Maybe there’s something in the air now that the boogeyman is gone. People feel ready to settle down. However conventionally or unconventionally.

Deacon rolls the scope between his hands a few times before turning back to the workbench, going through the motions of cleaning the guns before reassembling them. He lopes back toward his bunkhouse with the practiced calm of someone who knows there’s eyes on him.

**

Half an hour after Deacon’s unloaded his pack and crawled into bed, he begins to wonder if it was naive to think he’d get any rest. His corner room’s window faces the treeline and the side of the junk house, but he can still hear the patrols along the road: Preston’s measured stride gives way to the quiet, heavy hum of Codsworth’s propulsion motors. He’s listening for Hancock’s feet to travel across the road to Charmer’s house.

There’s nothing else to focus on. The quiet snore of the settler in the next room, the northwest breeze, which is occasional at best… he replays the day in his head, trying to find something to latch onto.

The way she held them on the way back from Diamond City. He takes a deep breath and lets himself relive it, lets that thought merge into the embrace in her room a few hours ago, gentle hands. She’d let him go too soon for his liking. It’d been lucky she was crossing the room, because his face might have given away some of his disappointment-

Crossing the room to move the curtain.

The to the window facing the treeline.

Deacon pushes himself up on one elbow, replaying the scene again, again, wondering what the hell else it could mean.

Door across the road opening, steps, door closing. More steps. Hancock’s.

Charmer knows him too well. He’s always known that, but he didn’t expect her to invite him to, to be able to-

The steps slow halfway along the road, quicken again, stop in the vicinity of Charmer’s front door. Deacon’s got a few minutes to decide if he wants what Charmer offered, and it’s at the soft knock, only audible because he was listening for it, that Deacon sits up and reaches for his boots.

Codsworth is going to be about halfway through the patrol loop right now. Deacon laces up and climbs out the back window, hugging the treeline as he passes the junk house and closes in on Charmer’s house.

Candlelight is flickering from the narrow sliver in the curtains. From there he should be able to see the front door, most of the center of the room, and at least half the bed. He pushes down the sudden rush of what that means and bends underneath the window, listening to Hancock and Charmer talking in soft voices. He can’t make the words out, but Hancock sounds like he’s trying to sound relaxed and failing with some small talk. Charmer sounds like she’s indulging him. Calm, gentle, and Deacon  _knows_  that voice.

He edges up just enough to see them standing by her desk, and the body language confirms what he’d already guessed. Hancock can’t stop shifting his weight and Charmer’s is back on her heels, giving him space, letting him make the first move. When Hancock finally takes his eyes off the floor she leans just far enough to move into his field of vision, giving him a soft question.

“I…” Half lip-reading, half listening through the warped gaps in the window frame, Deacon can only make out parts of it. “I think … … got this wrong, you can deck me, and I’ll go and … … you again.”

And Charmer’s back is to Deacon, but he can see the apple of her cheek rise as she smiles and holds still, letting him close the space between them. His mouth is on hers. His hand moves to her arm. Her hand moves to his jawline, tilting him up just a touch, nudging his mouth open and deepening the kiss.

Hancock draws back for breath and murmurs something - ‘Jane’, it must have been - and she kisses his cheek, his pulse point, before her hand slides to his shoulder. She’s whispering in his ear, far too quiet for Deacon to catch, but whatever it is must be good, because Hancock’s black eyes flutter closed as his mouth falls open for more air. She only has to put the tiniest bit of pressure on his shoulder for him to lower to his knees, fumbling her ammo belts off, dropping them to the side with noisy clunks.

Deacon’s fingers dig into the siding of the house.

“… good,” Charmer’s saying, so much of it lost, when Hancock leans in. Deacon can see her lower back, the exposed curve of her hip, the soft skin of her waist, and Hancock must be opening her trousers, kissing the skin he finds. Her hand cups the back of his head to encourage him, and Deacon can feel his pulse hammering in his throat.

Hancock’s fingers curl in the belt loops of her jeans, tugging lower, lower, and she must say something giving him permission, because finally he yanks them down to the floor. He waits for her to pull one bare foot from the cloth to widen her stance before he groans and dives back in, getting lower on the floor so he can get his mouth on her -

It’s just as Deacon turns from the window that he hears her moan.

**

Deacon stares at the ceiling of his room, waiting for the jealousy to set in. More than anything, he feels painfully hard.


	8. Chapter 8

Deacon wakes up tired the next morning, lack of sleep and some serious blue balls having compounded into something worse than the sum of their parts. His own bed is warm and soft but he pushes himself out of it anyway, shoving some sugar bombs into his mouth before getting dressed and facing the day.

Mama Murphy has made a kind of scramble with brahmin bacon in it, so things aren’t so bad. Deacon grabs a plate and thanks her before heading to the raised outpost by the bridge. MacCready’s there, gun slung over his shoulder and looking at Deacon’s food with the lustful defeat of a man who already ate too much.

“S’so good,” MacCready complains, and Deacon laughs quietly as he scoops up another forkful and makes a show of stuffing it into his face. “How does that lady make it so filling?”

“Probably cooks it in the bacon fat.” Deacon gestures with his plate toward the bridge. “Nick already take off?”

MacCready nods. “Soon as his night shift was over.”

“You’ve been taking a lot of shifts lately yourself.”

“Trying to earn some time off.” MacCready’s smile is warm and fond, and Deacon already knows his guess was right: “Gonna visit the kid.”

“Nice.”

“I’m gonna see if he wants to try living here.” He scratches his chin thoughtfully. ”You think Piper might ever bring Nat up here? S’quieter than Diamond City… probably a lot safer, too, even if her mayor theories don’t hold any water.”

“Want to make sure you’ve got an arranged marriage sorted out before you convince Duncan to move?”

MacCready scrunches his face up, shoving at Deacon’s shoulder - that wasn’t over the line, but it was close, and Deacon can’t help but smirk. “Kids need _friends,_ you b… ozo. I don’t want him to be miserable.”

“Then why’re you planning on visiting him?” Deacon smiles winningly as he takes the outpost stairs two at a time, laughing and dodging the empty Nuka Cola bottle.

“Deacon!” It’s Curie, poking her head around the corner of one of the houses. “Are you alright?”

He peeks over his shoulder to make sure MacCready’s out of ammunition. “Fine,” he confirms. “Just having a professional disagreement.” Curie doesn’t look like she buys this. “What’s up?”

She emerges fully, hands fidgeting in front of her. “Monsieur Garvey is teaching me to shoot, but he says you might be the best person here to teach me to move more… quietly, when we want to  _avoid_  ze fight.”

“I am great at that,” Deacon says with mock seriousness, and fights a smile when she claps her hands delightedly.

They spend the next twenty minutes with her gathering twigs and crunchy leaves to practice with. Dogmeat digs out the largest stick and tries to get them to play until Deacon bribes one of the settlers with a break from farm work if they’ll just play fetch with the giant death puppy.

Curie’s light, but she’s literally only had feet to touch the ground for a couple months, so she’s not used to keeping her weight one place or another. Deacon’s making a little progress with her and is considering moving on to creaky floorboards when Charmer’s front door opens. He turns.

“When you’re done with her, come see me.”

“Will do, boss.” He watches her nod, turn, and shut her door again. When Deacon turns his attention back on Curie, she’s giving him a curious look.

“I have been meaning to ask you, Monsieur Deacon - do you think you two-”

“You can’t ask questions when you’re sneaking,” Deacon interrupts. “Come on, pay attention to your knees.”

**

Ten minutes later, Deacon lets himself in, kneeling down to unlace his boots. Charmer’s already chuckling.

“What?” he asks.

“You rushed that lesson,” she chides.

“First lesson of several. Don’t worry about it.” Deacon looks around, not sure why he’s looking differences in the room. He does notice that the curtains are fully drawn, now, and the sheets on the bed have been changed. Charmer’s old-world sensibility leads her to change her bedclothes more often than anyone he’s ever met, but when she pushes herself out of the chair by the desk and sprawls out on the bed, he knows it’s for his benefit this time.

“Crop projections are boring,” she informs him. “C’mere.”

Deacon moves immediately. She hardly makes any room for him, which leads him to curl up against her side, pressed tightly, and his chest feels fit to burst. It’s barely been half a day since he touched her, but there must have been something in his mind that was nervous about changes, about last night going too well and there being no room left for him. He winds himself around her and ends up with one leg across hers and a hand cupping her far shoulder. She feels the same.

“Mmm.” She sounds pleased. “Sleep okay last night?”

Well, not exactly. He’s not sure how to answer without resorting to lying or jokes, so he presses his nose into the spot where her neck meets her shoulder and breathes her in. He feels her fingertips stroke along his scalp.

“Okay,” she says, like he actually responded. “Well, would you mind taking a nap with me anyway?”

“Gotta consult the schedule,” Deacon mumbles into her skin. He doesn’t want to move for anything.

“Uh-huh.” She traces the shell of his ear, making him shiver. “Pencil me in.”

**

He leaves around noon to take his patrol shift. The provisioner from Greentop chats with him for a while about spotting what he thought was a glowing mole rat a ways north of the ranger cabin on the way up. Deacon asks if it turned out to be anything, and the kid says no, and is there an open pantry yet? He’s starving. Deacon makes a mental note that the dead drop is _south_  of the ranger cabin - probably in a cooler.

Curie takes a break from sorting scrap to follow him for the last leg of his walk, where they pass Hancock on laundry duty. Deacon wonders if it’s linked to the bed sheets getting switched out in Charmer’s room or if it’s a coincidence - Hancock keeps his eyes on his work, only looking up and waving when Curie calls out to him. Deacon waves back and does the best read he can on a man with a face full of scars and an over-sized tricorner hat: tense, unsure, self-conscious… and trying to suppress something else. Contentment? He’s worried about looking smug. Makes sense. Deacon loosens his limbs and makes a show of being relaxed, throwing an arm across Curie’s shoulders (she won’t mind) as he asks her if she’s ready to test her new skills by sneaking up on and scaring the shit out of Preston.

**

That night, Charmer asks Deacon to come talk to her after they all eat dinner at the campfire. Deacon follows her home and undresses down to his long johns, joining her under the covers. He lets his hand wander up and down her side, tracing her shape underneath the fabric of her shirt.

“So you like him?” he says finally, in the safety of the darkness.

Her lips press soft and warm against the crown of his head. “Yes,” she murmurs. “You can throw out the receipt now.”

It’s playful, reassuring, but the tension in his spine won’t lessen. His hand continues to roam her, as if making sure no part of her has changed. That she hasn’t gone anywhere.

“You didn’t choose him as a replacement,” Charmer reminds him. “If that idea’s what’s got you worried, you’re wasting perfectly good anxiety over nothing.”

“I’m not worried,” he says, before realizing he’s lying. He curls his fingers around the curve of her hip in case she starts to pull away.


	9. Chapter 9

When Deacon checks the dead drop the next day, some coordinates have finally come; the package is in Wildwood Cemetery, and its destination is Tucker Memorial Bridge. There must be someone camped out waiting to take it the rest of the way. He tucks the paper in his pocket, loops around back to his room, and burns it in the ashtray.

Just because there’s no clear threat nipping at their heels anymore doesn’t mean he has to give up good habits.

Curie’s room is across the street. The odd smell Deacon had assumed was a collective settler stink turns out to be coming exclusively from her abode.

“Um,” he says delicately. “Are you moulting?”

She giggles and opens the door wider, inviting him inside. Plants are hanging in neat little bundles from the ceiling, and there are several ceramic bowls placed on… well, almost every available surface. They’re all covered with cloths. “Monsieur Deacon, what you are smelling is caseiculture!”

“Gesundheit.”

Curie laughs and smacks his arm. “It is _cheese_ ,” she explains. “Jane asked me to try drying some herbs to see if I could document and improve upon ze process…. and in all my research into old methods of curing meat and whatnot, I discovered there was no good reason that people are not also still making their own cheese!”

Deacon can think of one reason. One incredibly pungent reason. “Can I peek?” he asks, kneeling down to one bowl. She nods and when he lifts the cloth, what he sees is nothing like Blamco. It’s not even orange. “Well, I guess it’s good to have hobbies.”

“Brahmin milk is not exactly like cow’s milk, I think, but it is close enough that I know where to begin… I am quite sad zat Monsieur Valentine is not a Gen 3 like myself, as I would like to have as many testers as possible who remember what it should taste like.”

 _It should not taste like it smells right now_ , Deacon thinks emphatically. “I’m sure it’ll be great.” How does he save Jane from this insanity? She’s undoubtedly the target of this well-meaning gift. He’ll have to mull it over later. “You gotta churn this some more, or are you free? We gotta round up Preston and then I have a field trip for you two.”

Curie smiles at him like he’s the sweetest thing in the world. “You churn _butter_ , not _cheese_. And, oui, let’s find Monsieur Garvey.”

**

Preston’s well-versed in getting a location and a goal with very few details; his confidence is pleasing to see.

“There’s no reason to rush back, by the way.” Deacon leans in the doorway of Curie’s room as Preston navigates around the cheese bowls to help her pack the right things. “You know, I bet Curie would love to see Diamond City again. Not too far a trek south from where you’d be anyway.”

Curie’s face lights up just as Preston’s eyes widen. “Oh, can we?” she asks. “I have only been zere very briefly with Jane, to restock… there is a school there, and some kind of scientific institution that I never got to see. Oh, Monsieur Deacon, are you sure we have time?”

Deacon shrugs blithely. “If I get more coordinates while you two are still away, Jane and I can always go ourselves. No big deal.”

Preston has the expression of a man trying to figure out a way to get out of the situation and failing. “Well,” he says vaguely, and Curie stares at him hopefully until he shrugs in defeat. “We’ll make it a game time decision.”

**

Deacon tracks down Jane to let her know that the ‘side project’ has started up. He finds her talking with Strong by the bridge.

(Whether Strong dislikes most humans so much that he never comes in further than he needs to, or someone asked him to stay on the perimeter because of how badly he frightens some of the settlers, Deacon’s not sure.)

“Bald Human smell like Blue Lady,” Strong says as Deacon strolls up, which calls for an immediate new topic.

“Hey big guy.” Deacon’s careful to make sure his smile doesn’t show any teeth. “I came over to tell Jane that Preston and Curie are going on a trip together. How’s Starlight Drive comin’ along?”

“Starlight good. Walls strong,” he grunts.

“I’m going to go check on your work as soon as I can arrange it,” Charmer tells him, hands on her hips. “I’m pleased you took to your assignment so well. Did you enjoy the work?”

Strong’s face wrinkles up a little bit. It’s clear he’s still getting used to questions about whether or not he _liked_ something. “No puny humans to step around,” he rumbles. “But a long time with no fighting. Want to crush something.”

She smiles like she deals with murderous science experiments all the time. “Honest answer. I like it.” She claps him on the forearm. “Want to go back to Rocket until I find you something to crush?”

Strong grunts a yes. She nods and jerks her chin southward, giving him leave to start heading back to his camp.

“Don’t think I don’t notice that wide-stance butch pose you take on when you’re talking to him,” Deacon murmurs, once Strong is far enough down the bridge.

“He sees me as the alpha,” she says with a shrug. “It’s enough of a transition to answer to someone who weighs under three hundred pounds. Not to mention I don’t even eat humans.”

Deacon smirks. “So you try to make yourself look bigger?”

“What do you mean, ‘try’? He was practically cowering from my looming visage.”

Deacon makes sure his derisive snort is audible over the sound of the turrets. They spend a few moments in comfortable silence before he gets to the point of why he came over in the first place. “Preston and Curie are headed to Wildwood.”

"Okay. Have they slated you with anything else?” Charmer asks.

Deacon shakes his head. “Half my job description has always been keeping tabs on the other team… where they are, how much they know, what they want. Now, no other team.”

“So, markedly less work for you now.” Charmer tilts her head like she’s wondering if that makes Deacon happy or sad. He lets the corner of his mouth tilt upwards.

“More time for me to work on my tan.”

Charmer makes a show of leaning in, inspecting his face. “Well,” she says finally, “you have a few more freckles than you did when I first met you.”

“Maybe I can rig some mirrors together in one of those things I’ve seen on travel posters.” He mimes holding a three-fold reflective surface beneath his face as he basks in the sunshine, making her laugh.

“Well, take your time with it. I think I’m starting to get used to having you around.”

She walks away before he can react, which is probably for the best. He understands what she was really telling him, and he’s not sure how to react without blurting out _yes, please, for as long as you’ll have me_.

**

When she doesn’t invite him in that night, he waits until the shift changeover and checks the curtains at the window facing the treeline. He can see the light shining through the opening before he’s even cleared the gap between the junk house and hers, and he feels his heart rise up in his throat.

From his angle, he can tell Hancock’s on his back, but he can only see his spread knees and his bare hip. Between his knees, Charmer is fully dressed and leaning over him, eyes locked on his, and her hand is - she’s not jerking him off, it’s something he can’t quite -

“Please, a little more,” Hancock is begging. His hips rise up slowly, reaching, and it’s when Deacon sees the thick jut of his erection, untouched, that he realizes Charmer’s hand must be lower, her fingers must be -

“Weren’t you just saying this wasn’t going to do it for you?” Charmer’s concerned little frown is as patently fake as can be, and now that Deacon knows what to look for, he can see the muscles of her arm shift as she thrusts in minutely, palm perpendicular to the mattress. She’s barely penetrating him, making him squirm and shift for more contact. His hands come up from the mess of the sheets to reach back, toward the headboard.

“It’s good,” Hancock’s gasping. “I was wrong. It’s not… oh. Oh, Jane, baby, please,”

Charmer’s smile is pleased and a tiny bit wicked. “You beg really well for a beginner.”

Hancock digs his heels into the mattress, lifting himself up a little bit - he’s trying to fuck himself down on her fingers, Deacon realizes, except she’s moving her hand back and compensating for every little thrust he tries to get away with. When he finally drops his hips back down it’s with a frustrated whine.

“Go on. Let me hear you talk.”

Her voice is dark and warm, and Deacon can’t look away from her expression: grinning, hungry. Deacon blindly reaches down and unzips himself, leaning against the window frame by his forearm and gripping his cock. Her posture is suited to bending over a lover, or perhaps over prey. When Hancock makes some soft sound Deacon can barely detect, she leans in, digging her fingers in just a touch further to make him do it again.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hancock whines.

Deacon bites back an agreement as he smears his precome over the head of his cock, all the way down to the hilt, and god, he might get there before they do.

“I want more,” Hancock’s saying finally, low and desperate. “It feels so good, I’m so fucking close, baby, you haven’t even touched my dick and I’m…” He trails off. Charmer’s free hand has come to squeeze her breast through her shirt, nails digging in a little, and he’s probably watching too. “I’ll do anything. Please. Please get… get deeper in me and get me off, I _need_ it-”

Something flickers across her face so fast Deacon nearly misses it; before he can pin down what it is, it’s vanished. She covers Hancock’s body with hers, fingers moving fast and deep between his legs and making him arch off the bed, pushing himself against her touch as much as he can. When he shouts, Deacon feels his own legs threaten to give way underneath him; he braces himself against the side of the house for a moment before tucking himself away and booking it west.

He can’t get through the window to his room fast enough, shutting it with unsteady hands. He crawls onto his bed and almost tangles himself in the mess of his boots and his jeans before finally getting them off. He sucks on his fingers, reconsiders, then spits on them instead and reaches between his legs, throwing himself onto his back and biting his fist.


	10. Chapter 10

Certain provisioners have set schedules. All the runners have date ranges where they’re supposed to report in on how their settlements are doing - the last week of the month, young men and women trickle in and out of Sanctuary, bringing news and requests and occasionally some goodwill items that new settlers have sent on to Jane. (There are a few carved animals and other miscellaneous keepsakes that Jane keeps on a shelf in her living room.)

Several of the runners are Railroad, since Jane doesn’t mind housing members and it provides an excellent cover for all their travel. Deacon’s actually pretty sure that the one over at Sunshine is going to be the one assigned to run the new dead drop.

Spectacle Island’s runner is not one of Deacon’s, though.

Jane’s pet project doesn’t have _any_ of his people; that may be through design, but Deacon’s pretty sure it’s just random fate. His provisioners that visit on their circuits say it’s a quiet little haven with a weird rig to keep the sea creatures at bay. Jane seems to be shuffling a lot of families there to give them a decent shot at raising kids in relative safety. And that makes perfect sense, but Deacon’s lack of involvement in the project makes him even more motivated to _get_  involved. When Spectacle’s runner lopes up the bridge, rifle slung over her back, Deacon falls into step with her.

“Nice walk from the beach?” he asks.

She smiles nervously, hand fumbling inside her jacket pocket. A delivery. Maybe another tchotchke from a grateful newbie. “Yes,” she says. “I’m, um, I’m supposed to deliver this straight to Jane.” She pulls out a thin envelope. No caps in it. Just a few folded piece of paper.

“Our brave leader might not be up yet.” He jerks a thumb toward her house. “I’m the least likely to get my head bitten off, though, if you want me to carry it over.”

The girl shakes her head immediately. “It’s the rule,” she says, which makes it even more interesting. This is a regular occurrence? A letter instead of the usual oral report? “You sure she’s not up yet?”

Deacon’s been hanging around waiting for her to show, so, yes. “She’s not the earliest of birds, no matter how many worms she manages to get.” He weighs his options - if he fails to convince her to give it over, she might report that he was being pushy about it. Even if he succeeds, and gets to peek, he’s got to deliver it himself, then, which is a tacit admission that he intercepted it. “Knock softly and apologize quickly.”

She looks more nervous than ever, but jogs toward the house in the center. Deacon watches her go, thinking.

**

A few minutes later, he knocks too, and when she calls him to come in he finds her at the desk. The paper’s gone but there’s no way she was reading or arranging anything else.

Charmer looks stressed.

“Having secret missions without me?” he tries, smiling. “I thought I was your go-to for that.”

Her brief look of irritation that he’s bringing whatever this is up is quickly lost to resignation. “It’s not something I’ve been…”

“Sharing,” Deacon supplies.

“Right.” She takes a deep breath, weighing her options, and Deacon stays still in his best impression of someone who can be trusted with whatever this is. It can’t just be about protecting settler families. It can’t be that simple. “Deacon, I need to ask you some questions.”

And that’s the tone and wording she uses when she’s asking him to spill something the Railroad might not want just anyone to know. Casually, he turns on his heel, goes to the front door, and locks it.

(He checks the windows, too, but he’s not surprised to find that the curtain has already been pulled in again.)

“Shoot.”

Charmer gets up from the chair and starts to pace, looking in the middle distance. He hasn’t seen this from her before. “Doctor Amari,” she begins, and Deacon suppresses a look of surprise at that opening. “She can track down memories. Wipe them. Implant new ones.”

“Yes,” Deacon confirms, even though there’s no way she doesn’t know at _least_  that much by now.

“So.” She works her jaw and gestures inarticulately. “Concepts.”

“Concepts,” Deacon echoes, trying to catch up. “You mean as opposed to memories? Finding them, or…”

“Or removing them,” Charmer finishes. Her tone is agitated and her movements are showing it as well; he leans back to get out of her space and watches her try to formulate her thoughts. “Like, if the Institute… say they programmed a synth to believe the Institute was the be-all end-all.”

“They didn’t even want loyalty in their synths,” Deacon points out. “It was too close to having a-”

“Just as an example.” Charmer pushes her fingers through her hair. “Just - if they implanted not a memory, but a _belief_ , in a synth, is there a way to…?”

“To get rid of it?”

She nods, eyes finally meeting his and searching for confirmation. She wants a yes. She desperately wants a yes. Deacon thinks back to the one known synth on that island, and how uncomfortable that kid made her when they hauled him out of the Institute. Did she know what kind of project he was? That there was something about him that might come back to bite?

“Is Shaun okay?” Deacon asks gently.

This was the wrong question. Charmer’s expression flashes in anger and frustration before it’s pushed down and she’s turning, composing herself, pacing a long oval toward the bookshelf. Fuck. “I need,” she says, slowly, “to know if this is something within our power.” Our. “I can’t make a… a suggestion… to have a procedure done only to find it can’t be done.”

This is going to suck. “I’m not sure,” Deacon admits. “Synths aren’t usually implanted with ideas like you’re describing, so I’m not sure there’s any previous experience in this area.”

“Of course not.” she makes an aborted move toward the bed, probably to sit down, but stops. His eyes flicker to it - she hasn’t changed the sheets yet. She doesn’t want to sit where it smells like Hancock. Probably because she thinks he won’t come join her - so she _does_  want him closer? He takes a testing step forward, gauging her reaction. Results uncertain. She’s back to pacing. “There’s no way to test this without fucking with someone’s brain. Even if we hauled a raider in, it’s… it wouldn’t be _conclusive_ , concepts in a human mind are tied to the memories that built them, right? It might be harder to extract, or, hell, _easier_ , I don’t…”

Deacon’s still trying to get past the idea of using a raider as a medical guinea pig, but damned if he’ll fall behind in this conversation. “I can send someone to go talk to her,” he offers. “Hell, if you’re really trying to keep this project locked down, you and I could go ourselves.”

And it’s obvious that she could go and talk to Amari without him, but Deacon’s insinuated himself into this project, and whatever the fuck is going on clearly means a lot to her.

“Maybe,” she hedges, feet slowing down a little. He tries another step. Her body language shifts but doesn’t tense up.

“It’s nothing dangerous, right?” Because if it is, holy shit, this is going to get a lot more complicated. And he really doesn’t want to carry the guilt of hiding something from Des. “No potential violence, or…”

“No.” Her eyes are on the floor, and after a few moments of hesitation she moves very slightly toward him. “But there’s going to be…. confusion and discomfort. Until this is resolved.”

 _Passive voice much?_  She couldn’t even get any pronouns in there. “Amari’s a genius,” he murmurs. “We’ll go as soon as you want. I can leave something at the dead drop with new instructions to-”

There’s shouting outside, and heavy footsteps - Charmer straightens up like a mother bear whose cubs aren’t in sight, moving to the door and unlocking it. Deacon can see Jun by the workbench, and he looks worried but not scared, so it’s not a physical threat.

“What’s with all the noise?” Deacon calls.

“Oberland runner!” another settler yells back, as people start to cluster. “He’s booking it in here!”

Fuck. Deacon follows Charmer out of the house, down the road, meeting the kid at the entrance just as half the settlement drops what they’re doing to come see what’s going on. The kid’s not injured, but he’s sweating and almost definitely ran most of the way.

“Anyone following?” Charmer says sharply.

“No,” he pants, hands on his knees. Someone pushes through the crowd and nudges a cup of purified water into his hands. “Kidnapping. Raiders. They took Carrie.”

A hush falls over the crowd as Charmer straightens further, letting the kid take enough time to gulp down the water and then plunk down right there in the road.

“Raiders,” Charmer repeats. “Any idea why?”

“ _Caps_ ,” the boy says, and a surprised, disgusted ripple works its way through the crowd. Charmer swings her hand out sharply for people to shut up and back up and the reaction is instantaneous. (Deacon hasn’t seen this side of her since the Institute, and he has a feeling that her rough morning isn’t making this any easier on her.)

“They left a ransom note.”

The runner nods, swaying a little even seated. “A thousand. To the… Mass… Mass Pike Tunnel West.”

She scowls. “They’re not staying there.” Still in bare feet, Deacon realizes, she turns and assesses the crowd. “Hancock.”

He shoulders forward, face grim. “You thinkin’ Hardware Town?”

Charmer nods. “Can I trust you to take care of this?”

Good choice. Deacon’s known for years what Charmer’s learned over the past few months - that Hancock is a man who’s happy to help good people and more than happy to make the bad ones bleed. His black eyes narrow as he nods. “I’ll bring her back.”

“Good.” Her lip curls a little. “Grab Strong on the way down. He’s been getting hungry.”

Another nervous ripple among the onlookers. She turns to them.

“My settlements have had a reputation for being welcoming. For helping people. Now we have to send a new message to the Commonwealth: we don’t play games. We don’t pay ransoms. Our people walk home safe and whoever tried to hurt them doesn’t walk home at all. Understood?”

There’s a few shouts of agreement, a few nervous yeses, and people start to dissipate. Charmer hooks her arm around Hancock’s shoulders and draws him a few feet away.

“You walk her all the way back, okay? Let Strong eat his fill and make a mess. Fuck ‘em.”

“Total agreement,” he rumbles back.

“And when you get to Oberland you tell them it’s not a request anymore, they _have_  to pick up and move to Sunshine. Oberland’s always been too small to stand on its own and this shit will happen again if they don’t group up. Three’s not enough to keep safe.”

“I’ll tell them.”

Charmer looks like she wants to say more, but she stops herself, looking at his face: _You can trust me with this, I will do it exactly as you want_. When she finally starts to turn away, it’s toward Deacon.

“We’re tabling our discussion,” she says. “I’m going to go talk to the other runners. Grab me if Preston and Curie come back.”

“Got it, boss.”

**

Charmer goes back to her room. Deacon follows her and isn’t shooed away, so he leans against the wall and watches as she takes out the disassembled map, arranges it, and starts moving figures around. Deacon notes that she’s moving every ‘person’ to the Sunshine Co-Op column, not waiting for Hancock to return and confirm the hostage is still alive. She’s sure.

So something else is eating at her.

“Are you on the roster today?” she asks, not looking up from her work.

“No patrol, no junk sorting, no nada.” He puts some calm into his tone, hoping to soothe her a little.

“Okay.” She props her elbows on the desk and digs the heels of her hands against her shut eyes. “Send one of your runners to Goodneighbor to get an answer. You’ve got someone here, right?”

She’s never asked until now. “Jeremy.” A rare moment of sharing more intel than he strictly needed to. He hopes the gift is obvious. “Let me scribble for a second.”

Charmer leans back in her chair to make room for him as he picks up a stray scrap of paper and starts writing. It’s encrypted, and he’s never had to use the code to convey this kind of question before, but Amari’s even smarter than he is, and she’s been getting bizarre messages from him for over a decade now. This won’t stump her for more than a minute or two.

“I’ll be right back,” Deacon assures her. He leaves, whistles ‘60 Minute Man’ as he passes Jeremy and the others in the field, and turns the corner to fish the Nuka Cola bottle out from the grass. He tucks the note in and wanders off, taking a minute to ask MacCready if any more crazed runners have come through before looping back to Charmer’s house. She’s still by the front window when he comes in and locks the door behind him.

“So is it the song that means there’s a note?” she asks, smiling a little.

“Whistling means there’s a note,” Deacon confides. “The song is where it goes.”

Charmer looks impressed. And past that, she looks like she’s cooled down a little, and maybe… warm, too. Yeah, she understands the gifts.

(Which is good, because if he had to start putting things to honest words he’d be in a lot of trouble.)

“Is it safe to expect he’ll be there by evening?”

Jeremy will probably wait another five or ten minutes in whatever he’s doing to walk to the treeline and take a leak, and he’ll grab the note on the way back, pack, and be heading southeast before lunch is started. Deacon tilts his head and does the rest of the math. “Yes,” he says finally.

Her shoulders drop a little in relief. She’s still carrying that heat, that straight-backed energy like she’s not done cutting down problems as fast as they come up. Deacon tries to think of the right thing to say.

“Hancock’s gonna fill them full of lead,” he tells her. “And Strong’s gonna spit the shells out after.”

Charmer’s smile is dark and ironic. “It’s good to have people around me I can trust.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's messaged me on tumblr or left a comment. You are the wind beneath my proverbial wings.


	11. Chapter 11

Preston and Curie are back that night with a story about ferals and getting temporarily stuck in a burnt-out car. It sounds like the synth rescue was successful, which is the important thing. Curie seems proud of herself, too, and tells everyone how she haggled with Arturo for a deal on ammo on the way back.

“You got me some, right?” MacCready asks.

“I would have been happy to, but I did not know you needed anything!”

“I’m just teasing.” He turns to Deacon. “You’re not gonna send ‘em right out again, are ya? Preston’s on the roster for cooking tonight and I’m not spotting him.”

“I don’t have any new field trips yet,” Deacon says with a shrug. Curie smiles widely.

“Then I have a time to separate more curds tonight! Oh, this is very exciting.”

 _Cheese_ , Deacon mouths to a bewildered MacCready as she trots off. Preston just shrugs and heads to his room to unpack. Deciding to make trouble, Deacon follows him.

“So how was Diamond City?”

“Fine,” Preston says tightly, reaching his door and looking resigned when Deacon doesn’t take the hint and lets himself in.

“Visit any pillars of journalism while you were there?”

Preston rounds on him as soon as the door’s shut, crowding him into the corner. “You have to help me. You got me into this, I, I don’t know what I’m doing!” He gestures inarticulately. “She’s from the city.”

“Practically another species,” Deacon agrees.

“Shut up.” Preston cuts the air. “No. Don’t shut up, tell me what the hell to do. She loved your idea, wants to - to go to the Castle, interview everyone she can pin down, write some big story…”

“Sounds awful.”

Preston makes an irritated noise. “How do I not make this a disaster?”

“She knows the Minutemen are hayseeds. And she did some work with Jane back in the day. She’s run around the Commonwealth, walked through some mud… I don’t think she’s going to go through whatever culture shock you’re worried about.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. “I’m not great under pressure,” he admits.

“Says the guy who’s survived enough firefights to-”

“Fighting’s _different_!”

And in that moment, Deacon has never sympathized with Garvey more. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Listen… don’t worry about acting suave. Or macho.”

Preston arches an eyebrow. “You’re really stoking my ego here.”

“You dedicated your entire life to a group that helps people for no money. That’s a perfectly good angle.” Deacon claps him on the shoulder, aiming for some sort of masculine camaraderie. Preston seems to take it in the spirit it was given, smiling awkwardly.

“Okay.” He takes a calming breath. “Have I missed anything while I was gone?”

“Remember the stubborn trio down at Oberland?”

Preston’s brows crease immediately. “What happened?”

“Raiders took one.” Deacon lowers his voice a little. “Jane sent Hancock. And Strong.”

“Damn.” Preston takes a long breath. “Ransom?”

“Yep.”

“And she sent Strong?”

“Yep.”

Preston thinks about it. “She’s sending a message.”

“Definitely.” Deacon thinks about it. “Actually, maybe she should send Piper to do a story on it once everything’s calmed down. Nothing like free press out to the masses letting people know they’ll get eaten if they fuck with us.”

“Yeah.” Preston’s quiet a long time. “Sorry, just… digesting this… okay, not the best choice of words. …please stop laughing.”

Deacon refuses to even try. Once it’s run its course, though, he remembers something else: "On a weirdly related note, any inside info on Curie’s cheese quest?“

"What? Oh, the… it’s hard to keep up with what she’s saying. I’m not sure if the names of the different kinds are supposed to be French or if she just… says them in French.” Preston’s nose wrinkles. “For the first few hours of walking I thought Brie was a _person_.”

“Well who or whatever it is, can we steer the taste testing toward the settlers? I’m worried our pre-war buddies are going to be zeroed in on and they’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

Neither have the settlers, and Preston knows this, but he’s kind enough not to point it out. “No promises.”

**

Charmer’s front door is wide open when Deacon checks it from across the Settlement; that can’t be right. As he approaches he sees her walk out, dragging her bedframe out by its side and carrying it west.

 _What the hell?_  “Are we sleeping under the stars tonight, blueberry?”

She looks up and grins a little. It’s a bit tight at the corners, but it’s genuine. “Very funny. Pick up the back end, huh?”

Deacon bites back the innuendo-laden response and does as he’s told, following her as she brings it up and into the junk house. Codsworth hovers in the corner, watching and apparently unsurprised by this new addition.

“I’ll bring it in now, shall I, mum?”

“Yes, please.”

“Very good.” Codsworth floats into one of the side rooms. There’s an odd sound of metallic limbs wrapping around old wood, and then he reappears with a queen-sized bed frame made with fresh, completely rot-free wood and a gentle sanding. Deacon backs up enough to get out of Codsworth’s path to the door.

“Oh,” Deacon says.

“Already got two new mattresses for it in the house,” Charmer says, as Codsworth disappears. “There used to _be_  queen-sized mattresses. I don’t know why none of them survived.” She shrugs, picking up a pile of linens in the corner before following Codsworth out and back into her house. Codsworth sets the frame down very gently, and sets about adding the two mattresses side by side before turning around.

“I can take those for you, mum, and-”

“No, Codsworth, you’ve already been a great help.” She smiles.

He tilts all three of his ocular orbs in tandem. “Are you sure you wouldn’t also like an additional dresser?” One of his limbs gestures toward Deacon, and something strange and unexpected clicks in his head. “There are several I have been refurbishing which would-”

“No, thank you, Codsworth, I’m all set here.” Codsworth starts to say something else, and Charmer starts moving to the door, holding it open. “You’ve done a great job. Thank you.”

Codsworth tilts reproachfully, but takes the hint and hovers out. Charmer waits until she’s quietly shut the door behind him before coming over to Deacon.

“I’m _not_ asking you to give up your room,” she says firmly.

Deacon realizes that she thinks she stepped into something - that the suggestion that they move in together struck her as something he’d flinch from, have to be calmed down from. Because surely his personal space is more valuable than closeness.

(Didn’t it _used_ to be?)

“Roger roger,” Deacon says easily, leaning back against the desk. “The bot had some wires crossed.”

“The 'bot’ has some really traditional views of relationships,” Charmer mutters, eyes flickering to the door again. Deacon gets the feeling that she and Codsworth have had some discussion about him, and that perhaps her request that he put a new bed together made the butler think he’d finally gotten his way. “I’m sorry to… this… fuck. _Today_.” And she presents that final word as a complete sentence.

“Today,” he agrees, and focuses on helping her relax so he doesn’t have to work so hard to fight down the idea of carrying his things in here and putting them in drawers. “Let’s get some sheets on the bed, huh? Make sure they’re the right size?”

**

The sheets fit. The extra blankets and quilts are all too small to cover the entire bed, but they layer nicely when laid long-ways, and Deacon’s not giving Charmer a chance to get cold anyway. It’s maybe twenty minutes before dinner’s called and Charmer’s using the time to stroke the backs of her knuckles up and down Deacon’s neck, down his spine through his shirt, until his body eases against hers. Her long-sleeved shirt is thick and bulky and he burrows into the spot where the neckline turns to warm flesh. When he presses his cheek against the spot, she squirms and laughs.

“Ticklish?” he asks. His forearm is slung across her waist and it rises with her deep breath and contented sigh.

“You’ve got a five o'clock shadow going,” she replies. “It’s fine.”

“I’m exfoliating,” Deacon informs her. He makes a point of rubbing his cheek against her more and she giggles, bringing both hands up to scratch pleasantly at the nape of his neck. He sighs and tries not to melt too obviously.

Outside, there’s the clack of plates and cutlery starting to be arranged. Charmer’s nails pause on his scalp and he makes a joking disappointed sound until she starts up again.

“I want to ask you to do a favor for me,” she says finally. “I think….”

He holds back his 'yes’, wanting to hear whatever else she’s going to say.

“I think it’ll be… easier for me, if you’re there. But it won’t be fun.”

“I want to help you,” Deacon tells her.

“It’s going to suck.”

“I still want to help you.”

She swallows and nods above him, nails digging a little deeper into his skin. He holds back a sound. “Tomorrow. Can you meet me north of Vault 111? At four?”

“At four,” he agrees.

**

At dinner, she takes the seat of a broken chair and sets it on the ground between her feet. He sits there as they eat together in front of the fire. As the other settlers talk and joke, he presses his temple very gently against her knee. Hidden from view, her thumb brushes against the back of his neck.

**

The next morning, Hancock’s back and there’s a small sample of… something… on the side of everyone’s breakfast plates. It’s definitely _not_ orange. It’s sort of yellowy-tan, and seems to be in the process of collapsing in on itself.

“Mozzarella,” Curie explains as she adds a small portion to the next plate. “You can mix it in with your hash if you like! It has a very mild flavor.”

Hancock, who on some levels may be the bravest of all of them, uses his fork to cut off a small bit and sniff it. “Huh,” he says generously. Deacon notices at least two settlers have nudged it onto the ground, where Dogmeat is investigating it with great interest.

“I am going to try something like cheddar next,” Curie adds. “If I can get the flavor right, even if the consistency is still less than firm, perhaps I can make some razorgrain noodles and try my hand at macaroni and cheese!”

 _Blasphemy_ , Deacon’s mind insists. He scoots over on his bench for Charmer as she approaches the campfire, lifting her plate off her seat and then handing it to her as she sits.

“Messy rella,” MacCready explains to her, pointing with his fork to the lump on her plate.

“Oh.” Surprised, Charmer raises her plate to eye level, examining it. “Wow.”

Preston shoots an apologetic glance across the fire to Deacon, who pretends to miss it because Preston has failed him.

“It is only my third attempt.” Curie looks shy but very excited. “I hope you will let me know what to improve.” 

Dogmeat whuffs softly in a hopeful attempt to get someone else to drop cheese. Curie thankfully does not notice.

“Um.” Charmer cuts gently into the lump, and seems _pleased_ at how… weirdly gooey it is. “It looks pretty good. Smell’s not strong, but it shouldn’t be.” She spears some vegetables and swirls them around in the goo, tasting them. Her eyebrows raise in pleasant surprise and she nods.

“It is good?” Curie chirps.

“Mmm.” Charmer leans back on the bench and enjoys another bite. Deacon and, he’s pretty sure, most of the others around the fire are trying not to look surprised.

“S'not bad,” Hancock murmurs, squinting at how Charmer’s eating her share and then mimicking it. “Maybe more salt?”

Deacon looks down and reconsiders his own lump. Probably still going to Dogmeat. At least half of it, anyway.


	12. Chapter 12

Charmer leaves Sanctuary a little after noon, which is earlier than Deacon expected. He knew ‘meet me’ meant she’d be coming from somewhere else, or get there first, but four hours difference means there’s more to it than just making sure they’re not seen meeting or arriving at the same time.

He helps Mama Murphy get her things into the new bunkhouse at the end of the road. A lot of it’s not done yet - the second floor still needs a roof, for one - but the insulation Charmer insisted on in the walls has turned out to be worth the effort. The shredded couches, the additional wall paneling. Preston carries in some extra rugs from the junk house to line the floor with.

“Now you’re just spoiling me,” Murphy chides, smile wide. Preston smiles back at her and Deacon can read 'protective’ and 'warm’ all over the guy’s face.

“Where do you want your chair?” Deacon asks. “I could have it facing the window, so you can tell kids to get off your lawn.”

Mama Murphy cackles. She’s growing on Deacon. “If I get so bad I need a cane, I can shake it?”

“Why wait til you need it? I could put something together at the weapons bench. Maybe some nice rusty nails for the whippersnappers that talk back.”

She turns to Preston and gives him a knowing look. “The General sure can pick 'em, huh?”

Preston lifts his eyebrows and grins, deciding that the best thing to say is nothing at all. Deacon just rotates the chair and sets it firmly in front of the window.

**

If Deacon had needed to bring anything in particular, Charmer would have told him, so he’s just got his boot knife and his pistol as he takes the bridge south and loops back up to the Vault.

He hasn’t been here for a long time - other than the occasional radstag, there’s just nothing moving, and his job is being where it’s busy. The wind is occasional and warm as he walks around the vault opening and scans the trees, looking for Charmer.

No sign yet, but the dirt is loose and unsettled around the chevrons of the vault elevator. She went in or out recently. He walks a little further north, finally spotting a silhouette with tight shoulders and medium-length hair in a small clearing. She’s holding something. A shovel.

The ground is uneven in waves. Graves. There’s a large, bright square of white on the ground near where Charmer’s standing. It’s…a bed sheet? Laying right in the center of it is a body, wrapped tightly in the same white fabric.

Deacon takes a deep breath and moves one foot in front of the other, winding his way toward her and not particularly surprised when she looks up and narrows in on him a few seconds in.

“Hi,” he says, and shoves his hands in his pockets. He stops a few feet away from the start of the clearing, counting the unmarked mounds and then inspecting the unfilled grave. About four feet deep, freshly dug. Charmer’s hair is plastered to her forehead and there are swipes of dirt along her forearms and cheekbones, her jawline. “I woulda helped.”

She shakes her head, eyes staying on his boots. “I didn’t ask you here to dig.”

He’s not sure _what_ he’s here for. He looks at the mounds again - the two or three in the front are more defined, and if he had to guess he’d say those were done only a couple of rainfalls ago, maybe a month or so back. The others are closer to a season. A cursory glance tells him there’s one grave for every pod except her own.

And this last body, wrapped tight like a pristine mummy and saved for last… his stomach drops a little. There’s no way this isn’t 'Nate’.

“I’m,” he says, and swallows thickly, trying to get his voice to cooperate as he looks at the stark white of the sheets. “I’m here for whatever you need me for.”

Charmer nods like she knew he’d say that. She adjusts her grip on the shovel and sticks it into the pile of earth next to the grave, freeing her hands up to wipe on her jeans before she kneels down to look at the body.

“I’ve been putting this off,” she manages.

Deacon doesn’t say anything.

“It’s been so easy to do. I mean, the life support down there has been… it’s been off for nearly a year now. But the temperatures were still right. I’ve been carrying my old neighbors out in stages, and…” she sweeps her arm out to the older graves and Deacon nods. “But him, I’ve… I really _liked_ him, Deacon. It was hard to… to make myself take him out of his pod, where he looked like he was just… sleeping, maybe? Putting him in the earth instead, where he’ll…” She smiles painfully and rubs at her mouth. “I really did like him.”

“He was your husband,” Deacon murmurs. Why would it be surprising that she liked him?

“Yeah, but.” Charmer takes a stuttering breath and sits down on the ground, as close as she can get to 'Nate’ without dirtying up the edge of the sheet he’s laid out on. Her eyes are on his face like she can see it through the wrappings. “We weren’t in love,” she says, finally.

Deacon was absolutely not expecting this. “Oh,” he says, because it seems like she’s waiting for him to say something, and he’s having trouble processing this. He can’t picture her getting forced into some kind of marriage of convenience, or sticking with a guy who turned out to be a schmuck.

“Remember what I told you about how it used to be?” She looks up at him finally, searching his face. “About men who slept with men, or women who slept with women?”

That some how applies here? “I remember.”

Charmer nods. “He wasn’t… he _wanted_ to want women. He really did. He hated himself. But he was… I met him at work, when his first marriage was already falling apart. He didn’t have to tell me why it was. You know I’m good at reading people.”

Deacon considers his options before finally walking into the clearing and lowering himself, very carefully, onto the ground across from her. He looks up the length of the body between them and keeps listening.

“So we were good friends. He knew he could trust me with his problems, his secrets. So he was in acquisition, and he had been in the army… and so he was looking at all these order sheets, and he knew how much parts should cost, you know? We were there designing and making power armor and he used to fight in the stuff. He knew how it all worked. What it should cost. So the order sheets didn’t match up, and he and someone from accounting came to me, and they said, 'You’re in legal. Please tell us there’s something we’re missing. Please tell us we’re wrong.’”

“Wrong about what?”

Charmer’s mouth twists. “Pretending that the parts you’re buying to make the product are costing you way more than they really are is a way to hide your profits. It’s a way to embezzle.”

Deacon’s read enough old world books to get the general idea. “Someone was stealing money from your company.”

“Yes.” She laces her fingers together. “Really important people in the company. Really rich people who turned out to be really scary when faced with jail time.”

This fits into something that hasn’t fit anywhere before. Deacon guesses his way through it: “So you … had to get away from them, after you testified against them? That’s what you meant when. That’s the 'witness protection’.”

Charmer nods. “We got 'married’ so we could hide together. The guy from accounting had gone missing, and 'Nate’ was… he had gone through some really horrible stuff, so he was already kind of paranoid. I was the one that proposed it. I said if we were together, other women would leave him alone, and at least he wouldn’t have to pretend to be someone else when he was at home.”

And the picture’s coming together for Deacon now - how closely she values good friends. How protective she is when she feels someone’s been wronged. He can feel his chest tightening. There’s so much of Charmer that’s familiar. “…you were really thoughtful.”

She snorts derisively. “It wasn’t one-sided. I asked him to… to help me learn how to defend myself, if some of those thugs came after us. How to hide, how to fight, how to use whatever was around…”

This explains a lot. She was 'in legal’, which must mean something that’s like a lawyer but not. Her husband was the rough-and-tumble one. He would’ve been the one that taught her how to kill.

“He must’ve been a good teacher.”

Charmer smiles. It’s such a sad expression. "He didn’t love me, but he did really care about me. We were looking out for each other, you know?”

“Yeah.” He does.

She looks down at the body again, then behind her, to the other graves. “I wrapped the others up in whatever I could find. I’ve had these sheets for a while. I wanted him to be…” She sighs.

“Special?” Deacon offers.

“I wanted to apologize,” she says. “I… I really let him down, in a lot of ways, and I feel like the least I can do at this point is give him the best burial I can.” Her voice cracks a little on 'burial’ and when she gets up abruptly and turns away, walks to the edge of the clearing, he doesn’t try to follow her. Just stays where he is cross-legged in front of the body.

The breeze kicks up, warm for fall. When it dies back down she turns, back of her hand rubbing at her nose. Deacon schools his face into blankness and picks a random spot on the ground to look at as she returns and sits back down.

“I’m pretty sure I’m the first one you’ve told,” Deacon murmurs. “About his secret. Does Codsworth even know?”

“No.”

He nods. “Then I don’t know why you feel like you’ve let him down. You kept his secret. You were a great student. I never knew who taught you exactly where to put the knife in a guy’s head to bring him down with minimal fuss,” he gestures toward the hinge of his jawline fleetingly, “but, yeah, he was a really good teacher.” He smiles when she laughs softly, despite herself. “If he risked his job and then… and then went up against those fucks because what they were doing was wrong…” He trails off, not sure if he’s about to overstep.

“…then he’d probably like what I do now?” Charmer finishes.

“I think so, anyway.”

“You’re probably right.” She sniffs, and the wetness of the sound is shockingly vulnerable from her. “I just, I wasn’t able to…”

Deacon fights the urge to press. His eyes flicker up to check her expression, but it doesn’t help him. She’s looking at the body, she’s miserable, she’s defeated. When she finally pushes herself to her feet he gets up too.

“Can you get those two corners.” She’s barely audible.

“Yeah.” He bends down, picking up the ends of the sheet as she gets the others. Together they lift 'Nate’ up off the ground and move him gently over the grave. Deacon almost misses when Charmer’s hands stop, hesitate for just a little too long before beginning to lower him down. He goes down smoothly before touching the ground at the bottom. Deacon doesn’t let go of the sheet until Charmer does, and the soft, thin fabric flutters down to puddle at the bottom, obscuring the remains.

Behind his glasses, Deacon checks Charmer’s face again. Lines of pain along her forehead, around her eyes, her mouth. She still wants to cry. She either doesn’t want to do it in front of Deacon or she doesn’t want to do it at all. He has no idea what to do now. She’s kneeling at the head of the grave, looking down at the body.

“Whatever you need,” he says quietly. “Including leaving you alone.”

“No,” she says, and then raises a hand as if to correct herself. “He- this is stupid.”

“It’s not,” he says immediately.

“He always… we weren’t together, but we were friends, you know?” She forces a smile. “We promised each other that if we ever found someone we actually were gonna be with, we’d introduce them to the other. You know, to vet them? Make sure they were good enough for our spouse?”

“Right.” Can they do that now? How does he meet 'Nate’ when he’s in the ground? It must be more of a symbolic thing. “Sure.”

“Just…” She gets up, arms coming across her chest tightly as she moves toward the edge of the clearing facing east, home. “Please. Just talk to him. I know it’s silly. But I fucked up so many other things.”

“I can do that,” Deacon assures her.

“Thank you. Really, I…” Her breath is rattling and wet. “And, hey. Maybe… try telling him about Barbara. If you can. I think it might help.”

He’s frozen now, looking at her as she hesitates at the edge of the wood before beginning to walk toward home. He watches her go, disappearing slowly into the shadows, and then he looks down at the body again.

If Deacon wanted to, he could fill the grave, wait twenty minutes, and just walk home. There’s no way Charmer would be cruel enough to bug or monitor this area. There’d be know way for her to know that he never said a word after she left, that he just buried this man - 'Nate’ - but didn’t speak to him at all.

Deacon also knows he absolutely cannot do that.

“Hey,” he says, testing the waters on how awkward this is going to feel. “So you’re, um, you’re Nate. Well, you’re as much Nate as she is Nora.”

The air is still around him. Now that he looks, Deacon can see the inconsistencies in the hole where Charmer must have climbed out after finishing the dig. His stomach turns. Scratch awkward. This just hurts.

“I’m Deacon. I mean, I’m a lot of names, but it’s mostly Deacon.” He shifts on the ground, looking around a few times before forcing himself still. “I’m, um, I guess in the old-world way of looking at things, I’m dating your wife.”

He closes his eyes and wonders what it’s like to asphyxiate in a cryo pod. Charmer never explicitly said what the failure had been that had led to the other dwellers dying, but Deacon always assumed from something in the way she talked around it that it hadn’t been peaceful, while they were sleeping or otherwise knocked out. That they’d been traumatized in their last moments.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” Deacon tries. “Um, I’ve been to a lot of vaults, over the years, and I still haven’t found one that wasn’t like some sort of sick joke… the people who designed those things were monsters. I’m sorry.” He rubs the back of his head. “So I think I’m supposed to tell you about myself, which, bear with me, because that’s pretty much the exact opposite of what I normally do.”

Here we go.

“I did a bunch of stupid shit when I was a kid and I’ve been trying to make up for it since then. I tried to just walk away from it, at first, but it sort of caught up with me, and the person I love got… she died.”

He looks around again. Still no one. Nobody comes here, he reminds himself. Nobody comes here.

“The shits I used to call my friends found my wife and killed her for something about her she… she never even knew about, something that wasn’t hurting anybody, and I’m really… I’m really not all that sorry about killing them once I found out what happened, I’m more kind of… in this place where I’m trying not to feel like I didn’t lead them to her. I know that’s not what happened, but it feels that way, and.”

The silence is so stifling. As much as he hates making himself keep talking, listening to the silence is almost worse. It feels too much like he’s really talking to someone. Really being judged.

“I know I’m not doing a great job of convincing you I’m the right guy for your wife. I really like her. I…” He looks around again, listens, closes his eyes and tries again to say it. Fuck. “I really care about her. She means a lot to me.

“She just told me that you’re the one who trained her first, I mean, she picked up other stuff from Preston once she got out, but I know you’re the one to congratulate on all the ruthless shit she’s capable of doing.” He smiles thinly. “There are still really awful people in the world, and she burns them down and salts the earth after her. I think you’d be proud of that.”

Deacon falls into a lull and looks down at his hands, twining them together and pulling them apart again. A long ways off, north-northwest, a radstag doe is picking its way through some brush. Deacon listens to it for a while.

“I don’t know why she feels like she fucked up when it comes to you. It sounds like you were good friends and you stuck together to stay safe. I’m sure she played her cover really well.” He works his jaw. “Maybe she left some stuff out of the story. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. It’s… it’s hard.”

He wants to go home. He wants to get up and pick up the shovel, but he knows he has to at least try first. Charmer asks so fucking little of him, considering.

“Barbara was really great.” God, that sounds weak. “I didn’t deserve her. I… I met her when I’d left a gang and I was trying to figure out what to do with my life. She just had this simple happiness when it came to life, you know?”

No answer, of course. Deacon shuts his eyes and keeps going.

“She was always trying to make stuff she read about in old cook books.” The corners of his mouth tug up. “She could grow carrots out of concrete, but she wasn’t all that great at cooking. It didn’t really matter. She…”

He reaches for what to say next.

“She had a hard time with confrontation. So she hired me to go with her to trading posts. There were a lot of droughts and other problems going on, and people were getting really nasty.

"She’d grow the food and I’d go with her to the market, stand behind her while she said how much everything was, and I’d stand behind her with a baseball bat. It was easy, really, and after a while you don’t need to carry the bat anymore, you know?” He grins. “She paid me in tatos and gourds and a couple caps and I just. I’d never had food taste that good. I know my crush probably made the food taste even better than it was, but. She was a really good farmer.”

Deacon can feel himself smiling. He didn’t realize he’d still feel proud, talking about these things so many years later. It doesn’t make this easy, but it helps.

"She thought it was cute that I liked reading old books, and I’d tell her stories about… about whatever, really. I started with Pride & Prejudice because I thought it was the most romantic one. But she really liked As You Like It and Midsummer Night’s Dream, and really, I never completely understood the Shakespeare ones because some of the lines are just… they’re references to stuff that happened like four hundred years ago. A few months later when I finally moved in and brought my books, she’d help me work it out and everything would be clearer. We were this really weird, really good team.

"We were gonna have kids. We wanted to-”

Deacon covers his mouth and bites back the sound, shutting his eyes tightly. Holds his body rigid as he fights it, tamps it down, because if he starts he’s not sure how long it will take to stop. But it’s coming no matter what, and if he’s honest with himself, maybe this is what he needs to do anyway.

He lets himself cry.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere thanks to everyone who's left a comment letting me know they're enjoying the story. You guys are the best!

The sun’s setting when he starts walking back. There’s no new synth coordinates at the dead drop to the south, and he takes a looping way back to Sanctuary, lost in his own head and not in a rush to see anyone yet.

Preston and several others are helping move more people into the new insulated bunkhouse. The sub-freezing winds are a month or two off, but when they come, the new build and the relocation across the street will have been worth the effort.

Marcy is carrying two gym bags of belongings behind Preston and Jeremy, who are carrying a rather bulky dining table. Jeremy looks up from watching his feet to give Deacon the most fleeting of glances before going back to his work, and Deacon makes a mental note to check the Nuka Cola bottle.

“Don’t ding it,” Marcy’s snapping, as the two men start angling it through the bunkhouse’s front door. “God. It’s bad enough we’re getting shuffled around for no reason, I don’t need my _personal possessions_ broken too.”

Hancock appears behind her, switching the two chairs he’s carrying to his left hand so he can sling his right one across her shoulders, making her flinch.

"You know, Marcy, if you’re not liking it here at Sanctuary, you’re always welcome in Goodneighbor. The rooms at the hotel aren’t too big, but the locks are solid. No maid service, so you wouldn’t have to worry about your stuff.”

She sputters something as he slides past her. He’s whistling, now, and something about how upset he just made her makes warmth bloom in Deacon’s chest.

**

He takes a few minutes in his room to wash his face. Lifting his sunglasses off, he winces at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror, dunking a rag into the wash basin and starting to scrub at his eyes, cheekbones, chin, everywhere that still has a salty residue from dried tears. It’s been years since he’s done something like this. Deacon feels so much more exhausted than he would have thought possible, and while he’s great at lying to himself, pretending he’s just worn out from filling one simple grave is a lost cause.

But it’s actually not that bad. His head is strangely empty, and when he feels a pull toward his bed he can’t think of a good reason not to give in to the urge to rest for a few hours.

**

As predicted, the Nuka Cola bottle has a note. Amari’s response is short and to the point: _Problem unprecedented. Would have to get the package in the chair and see if I could even target the problem._ He sighs and wads the paper up, walking back to the road tossing it in the campfire.

MacCready is sitting in the driveway by the weapons bench, surrounded by firearms. Shotguns, pipe pistols, usual raider fare. Some are already disassembled, and he’s currently looking down the length of a stock to see if it’s crooked.

“Hancock bring those back?” Deacon asks, watching the other man work.

MacCready responds with an amused grunt. “He says Strong’s coming up later with a bigger bag. Sounds like there were fewer than a dozen guys at the hideout, but they had a nice little cache…” He looks up to Deacon and tilts his head. “You busy tomorrow? I think some of these are worth keeping, but I won’t know ‘til a few test fires.”

Sounds nice, actually. Deacon doesn’t really feel up to anything that takes too much emotional or mental energy right now. “Those empty Fancy Lad boxes are asking for it,” he says in a jokingly sinister tone.

“Heh! Knew I could count on you. After lunch?"

"Sure. When’re you ditching us for the twerp?”

“Before dinner tomorrow, if I can get enough of these sorted out first.” He gestures to the piles. “Talked to Jane. She’s already got an extra mattress set aside for him in the new bunkhouse.” He chews his lip. “Still not sure if I can convince him to stay here, though.”

Deacon frowns. "You’re his father. Telling him what to do is kind of your job, isn’t it?”

“When I was age, grown-ups who told us what to do got winged in the shoulder.” MacCready mimes a quick hip-fire shot to an invisible enemy. “Still not sure how to be the bad guy.”

"Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be downright evil in no time.” Deacon looks around. “And there’s worse places for a kid to grow up. A roof over his head, a dog, plenty of food.”

“No ferals.”

Deacon snaps and points. “And no ferals,” he agrees. “See? He’ll love it.”

MacCready grins, and Deacon sidles over toward the center of town, up to Charmer’s door. He’s not sure he could have looked her in the eye a few hours ago, but the nap seems to have helped center him for some reason. Are toddlers onto something? Should he take siestas more often?

Deacon knocks. It takes a little longer for Charmer to answer the door than usual.

“Thank god,” she says, when she sees him. “Come in.”

“’Thank god’?” Deacon echoes. As he walks in he hears on the familiar thump-thump-thump of Dogmeat’s tail wagging against furniture, and sure enough, there he is, curled up on the rug by the bed and panting excitedly.

“Don’t want to talk to anyone else right now,” Charmer explains, returning to her spot next to Dogmeat. She pulls something out from under the bed - a whiskey bottle.

“Well, you definitely chose the right company for that.” He sits on the dog’s other side on the floor, scratching his ears. “Dogmeat’s never been his chatterbox self since that run-in with the giant mole rat.”

“Heh.” She leans back, taking a sip before passing the drink over. “Really left an impression on him?”

“Oh, yeah. You never noticed his thousand-yard stare?” Deacon’s hushed tone clashes just the tiniest bit with how Dogmeat is currently craning his head back to lick Deacon’s free hand. Deacon takes a solemn pull from the whiskey. “Poor guy never recovered.”

Charmer smiles faintly, but the silence rolls in in spite of Deacon’s best efforts. It turns out to hurt a lot less than he expected. He knows Charmer’s thinking of Nate. There’s no way she doesn’t know he’s thinking about Barbara.

He passes the bottle back over. Her fingertips brush against his.

“Wake,” Charmer says quietly. “Noun, not verb.”

Deacon shifts closer, leaning over Dogmeat until his shoulder touches hers. “We still have those,” he says. “Actually, I think we’re having one right now.”

**

**

Deacon wakes up first, which isn’t unusual. The early sun is edging into the room through the narrow gaps in the wood panels, making shapes on the floor and on the bed sheets. Dogmeat is snoring quietly underneath the dining table, one ear flicking back intermittently. Deacon gives himself a few minutes to enjoy how quiet it all is.

Charmer makes a soft sound in her sleep when he moves closer to her, chest tight against her back. When she presses back against him, he realizes he has to get out of bed before he starts to get worked up.

(Maybe soon. But not yet.)

He slips out of bed and moves soundlessly to the wash room. There’s still a half-full bucket of fresh water, and there’s even a second bar of soap now on its own small plate. He inspects it a few moments, wondering if it means something, before pulling his shirt off and beginning to wash up. He hears the bed creak, and then the door open and shut - she must be letting Dogmeat out. It’s only a few moments later that he hears a knock, and the door open again.

Hancock’s footsteps on the floorboards. Charmer’s moving to the table, pulling the chair back. Low voices.

Deacon decides to make a point of not rushing. He’s been needing a shave anyway, and if he knows Charmer and her antiquated love of having a full stock of everything… yup. A sharp blade in the medicine cabinet, and even some fresh washcloths. In the other room, he hears several loud metallic clunks at once; probably guns dropping to the floor in a bag. Strong must have come back. Deacon lathers his face.

“…fucking _coolers_ back with him,” Hancock’s saying. Charmer asks a question. “Stuffed full of legs! In case you don’t send him on another run before he gets hungry, I guess.”

Charmer says something Deacon can’t make out - she doesn’t sound concerned. Deacon starts shaving in long, clean lines, dragging the blade across the cloth in between strokes. He thinks about how best to play nice with Hancock in front of Charmer - it’s been easy enough to avoid him up until now, not needing to give him any further nudges in the right direction and not wanting to risk some sort of jealous itch. (And damn if he doesn’t sort of long for the days when feelings like that weren’t a risk.)

“…the Castle,” Charmer’s saying, and Hancock grunts like he agrees. “The Minutemen are… … a certain image. Preston never really needed me anyway.”

“Does _he_  know that?”

“That’s to be seen. But he’s headed there anyway at some point… Deacon!” She’s raising her voice a little, calling him. “Are you nearly done? I’d like you in on this.”

“Takes time to be this beautiful,” he calls back, and finishes up quickly before rinsing off, pulling his shirt back on, and heading back out.

Charmer and Hancock are seated at the small dining table, a duffle bag full of guns at their feet. A quick glance tells him that this one isn’t the one MacCready was working with earlier - definitely the ones Strong brought up.

“You and Strong go on a shopping spree while you were on assignment?” Deacon kneels by the bag, pulling out a rifle with a busted scope and frowning at it. “Fixer-uppers, definitely.”

Hancock smirks. “They were in slightly better condition before a giant super mutant tore through the place started throwing everyone down stairwells,” he rumbles. “But hey, free’s a great price, and I know a guy who can fix these up pretty good.”

“Yeah, I got a brunch date with him today to check out the ones you already hauled up.” Deacon straightens, noticing for the first time that there’s no third chair at her tiny little table and that he’s gonna just have to lean back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. He pushes down the desire to just sprawl across the bed instead like an animal marking their territory. “That what you wanted to talk about, boss?”

Charmer smiles. She’s always liked it when he called her that. “I was telling Hancock that my latest ‘gestures’ might be effective to keep us from getting bothered by raiders, but aren’t exactly in line with everyone else’s here in Sanctuary.” She leans back. “I’m thinking of sending Preston to the Castle to lead the Minutemen himself.”

And she wants his opinion. He carefully does not raise his eyebrows. “Well, you won’t be losing any resources,” he notes. “Preston would still make sure you had as many boots on the ground as you needed, whenever, wherever.”

Hancock leans in toward Charmer, looking a little concerned. “Just how bloody’re you expecting to get, Jane?”

She shrugs. “I have no specific plans, if that’s what you mean.” Her mouth quirks. “My focus right now is on securing more areas for peaceful settlement. The fewer hideouts there are of Gunners and raiders are, the safer the other areas will be… but I’m not planning on any sting operations yet until other things are tied up more neatly.”

 _Synth resettlement,_ Deacon thinks. _And maybe Shaun._

“Well, you don’t have to do anything official yet. Maybe don’t ask Piper to write anything up on the bloodbath. She’s planning to hit up the Castle at some point anyway to do an article on Garvey and the Minutemen… which, by the way, should _still_  be a band name… you can always just tell Preston to get his ass in gear and go check on his HQ.”

Charmer’s considering it. “And if I send Curie to Spectacle Island to start training the settlers on the ocean salt project, that could-”

Hancock squints. “The what?”

She shrugs. “Salt’s good for the diet and would really help meat last through the winter. Mining it is impossible in these conditions. Better to boil off ocean water with a dose of radaway. I’ve had Curie narrow down exactly how many doses we’d need for every ten gallons of water, and the yield looks reasonable.”

Hancock’s gaze slides over to Deacon. “Is she always like this?”

“Planning? Plotting? Strategizing? Yes.” Deacon shrugs. “I say send them as soon as they’re ready, although if we get another side project we’ll have to do it ourselves.” Deacon’s not completely opposed to letting Hancock know about the synth coordinates project, but there’s such a thing as need-to-know.

“As long as Hancock doesn’t mind running things if I step out for a few days to a week.” Charmer looks to Hancock, whose eyes widen in surprise.

“A little more woodsy than Goodneighbor, but I’m sure I could handle it.” He sounds touched.

“Good.” Charmer raps her knuckles against the table. “Anything else before I go get breakfast?”

“Yes, the guns,” Hancock says, nudging his boot against the bag. “Deacon. Tell her it’d be fine to move the armory out of her house and into the bunkhouse we’re clearing out.”

Deacon wasn’t aware that this was a proposition that’d been put up before, and he isn’t sure if he’s going to side with Hancock against Charmer on _anything_. “Is it that full?”

Charmer makes a face like she doesn’t want to admit that it is.

“Come on,” Hancock says, gesturing down the hall to what used to be the main bedroom. “Codsworth can scrounge up a lock and matching keys just as good as what you got here.”

“It’d have to be _two_  locks,” Charmer counters. “One for settler firearms and a completely separate room for the big stuff. Nobody here needs their hands on the fucking mini nukes.” She works her jaw, looking down the hall and calculating. “I don’t think we need to do it. It’s all safest here, and I can shuffle the ammo to make room for the new stuff.”

“The way we drop bodies around here, we’re only going to have a bigger and bigger stash.” Hancock leans forward. “Come on, you built this hut with a bedroom. The living room already has all your food and gear and private meetings… this too?.” He gestures to the queen-sized bed. “I’ll have Sturges fortify the doors on the two west-side bunk rooms. And, hey, your bedroom even has a window facing the treeline. Don’t have to give a damn thing up.”

Deacon feels a flush rising from his neck to the backs of his ears.

“I’ll think about it,” Charmer says, as if nothing of interest was suggested just now. “Bring the other bag in here and I’ll deal with them later. Deacon, go eat and meet up with MacCready to test the first batch.”

Deacon salutes. “Roger wilco.”


	14. Chapter 14

MacCready’s halfway through his plate of radscorpion eggs when Deacon starts filling his own plate. When Hancock reappears from the bunkhouse with the second bag of guns, carrying it back to Charmer’s house, MacCready smirks.

“Those raiders had a pretty big cache down there, huh?”

Deacon allows himself a smug grin. “Not anymore, I guess.”

**

The pistols fire okay, but the few that have scopes have absolutely crushed, _useless_ scopes. MacCready’s not shy about taking them off and throwing them into the junk bucket.

“What we need,” MacCready informs him, resting the stock of the next pipe rifle against his shoulder and aiming, “are some really high-ranking Gunners. Those are the only assholes I know around here that have decent holsters.”

“I’ll try and antagonize some into fighting us if I see any in my travels,” Deacon promises him earnestly. “How many of these do you think we’re gonna end up selling to Carla?”

“A _lot_ ,” MacCready says. He fires a shot, squints to examine where on the old Fancy Lads box he hit, and then looks around the makeshift firing range before leaning in. “I mean, have you _seen_ Jane’s bedroom?” He flinches suddenly. “I mean, I just meant-”

“The armory,” Deacon corrects smoothly. “And, no, I’ve always kept my own hardware.”

MacCready looks grateful that he hasn’t pissed him off, and is moving swiftly on: “Well, it’s fucking packed. I think she was hoarding weaponry before maybe even _Preston_  ran into her. She’s sold off a lot of the shittier stuff to make room for more ammo, but still. We could outfit two full settlements tomorrow if we needed to.”

Well, damn. “Not really a problem so much as a nest egg, is it?”

“You kidding? Seeing how she values firepower is one of the things that makes me wanna stick around up here.” He fires a short burst of shots at the box, looks up to make sure the grouping is good, and sets the rifle aside to pick up a new one. “But if we’re gonna have some kinda Fort Knox it’s gotta relocate. I think Hancock agrees with me, I’ve been trying to get him to talk to Jane about it…”

“Why not talk to her yourself?” _Why Hancock?_

“I’m a sniper, not a… I dunno. Leader. I don’t… _run_ things.” He loads up and takes aim. “Jane and Hancock, _they_ run stuff.”

Deacon’s satisfied enough with that answer. “I think he mentioned it this morning when he brought the guns in,” he says vaguely. “And for the record, I think she’d listen to you fine if you went in and said your piece about something. She listens to us followy-types all the time.”

“ _You’re_  not a followy-type,” MacCready murmurs, like Deacon should know better. “You’re… …I don’t know, really. Her right-hand man?” He turns to look off into the middle space, pondering. “Right-hand boyfriend?”

Oh my god. “Let’s go with the one that _doesn’t_ make me sound like a teenager.”

**

Charmer is in the new bunkhouse, arbitrating an argument over room preferences that sounds both inconsequential and incredibly boring. It ends with Charmer copying a layout sketch from her pocket onto a fresh sheet of paper and nailing it on the front door, in hopes that people will stop asking Preston to switch them out or if the corner rooms are already taken, so Preston will stop having to bring the issues to her. Deacon sidles up next to her as she heads back to her house.

“Never lead people,” Charmer murmurs, quietly enough that only he can hear.

“Literally some of the best advice anyone can give anyone.” He’s completely serious. “Will a present cheer you up?”

Her gaze travels over the duffle bag of guns on his shoulder. “Oh, sweetness, you shouldn’t have.”

“Anything for you, my little blueberry.” He tilts his head down so she can see him flutter his eyelashes, smiling when she laughs. “MacCready’s holding on to the five to sell, and Strong’s two bags. These are our keepers from Hancock’s bag.”

“Well, let’s go put ‘em in a vase.” She holds the door for him and follows him through her living room and down the hall, pulling out a ring of keys to the bedroom to let him in. And, holy shit, Hancock and MacCready weren’t kidding.

“Jesus Christ.”

Charmer rolls her eyes and slides her fingers through the strap over Deacon’s shoulder, taking the bag and unzipping it. “Get it out of your system.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Deacon adds, both hands free now to gesture at the room. “This? All of this?”

“There aren’t any other armories on any settlements,” Charmer reminds him. “A minimum of 1.5 guns for every settler, but no actual armories.”

Deacon has literally never seen this many mini nukes in one place before. “Are you trying to rebuild Fort Knox?”

Charmer starts double-checking chambers before leaning the rifles up on the racks, which directly face other racks with very little space between them. “Fort Knox was full of money, and fuck you. I’ve blown up a giant plane and an underground lab. I’ll be as paranoid as I like.” The dresser in the corner, which turns out to have been converted into a repository for handguns, is mostly full as Charmer starts filing the pistols away according to ammunition size.

“Okay,” Deacon says, because he can’t think of any good reason to argue with someone when they’re standing in the middle of this much firepower .“It’s not weird. It’s fine. Everything’s cool.”

She sighs. “See why I don’t want it in another building?”

“Arturo would either mess his pants or pass out if he saw this.”

“I thought you were done.”

“I just saw the _multiple_ rocket launchers in the corner.” Deacon points.

Charmer sighs and closes the last drawer, zipping up the empty bag and stepping back out into the hallway so she can lock it back up again. “What did you want to talk about?”

Deacon tries to switch gears. “I didn’t say I had anything.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got that look.” Charmer looks at his face, assessing. “Did we get a note back? About…?”

About Amari. “I was trying to wait until you weren’t recovering from dumb settler problems,” he confesses. Her expression is saying she wants to hear it now, though, so he plows through: “It’s like we thought. She can’t be sure until she’s got him in the chair.” Her face falls. “But she’s willing to try!” he adds. “And she really is brilliant, have I mentioned that?”

“Yeah.” She retreats down the hallway, tense again, finally stopping at the desk where she leans against it and crosses her arms. He makes himself keep his mouth shut while she works whatever this is out, but after a full minute she still hasn’t said anything.

“You wanna get him in the chair,” he says quietly.

Charmer nods.

“Hancock can run things while you’re gone,” Deacon points out.

She nods again, clearly less bothered by that detail.

“I can come with you?” he offers. “To… help?” She looks like she could use a shoulder for whatever this is, but he knows better than to say out loud that his assistance might be completely emotionally based.

“Yeah,” she says, in a breath like a sigh. Okay, so that was the right thing to offer. “The coordinates. Could… could Jeremy…”

“Check the dead drop while I’m gone, drop the coordinates to - actually, I’ll have him do it through Hancock.” Hancock won’t bat an eyelash at an anonymous Railroad note saying he needs to send Curie and Preston somewhere weird. He’s gotten odder stuff from them in the past, honestly. “I’ll go now to set that up?”

“Please,” Charmer confirms.

**

They’re past Drumlin Diner when Charmer gets an idea.

“Deacon,” she says, mulling.

“Charmer,” Deacon returns. “Jane. Can I make some others up? Diane. Helena. Catherine - oof!” He pretends to stumble as she sticks her leg out in a half-hearted attempt to trip him. Her idea seems to be putting her in a better mood for his jokes, so he’s on board with whatever it is. “What’s your idea? …boss?”

She grins slyly as he tacks the last word on. He feels a thrill run up his spine. Maybe. Maybe after they get this job done. They’ll be in Goodneighbor, and he’s got a great room picked out at the Rexford - “Have you ever been to Boston Public Library?”

Oh god. “The famed super mutant den?”

“We don’t actually have to go _in_ the library,” Charmer clarifies, hands up. “Just to Copley Station.”

“Which is _also_ a super mutant mess,” Deacon singsongs.

“The lobby. That’s it. We clear the lobby, we grab the cache, we’re out.”

“Is the cache literally all books?”

She squints at him. “You of all people should know how valuable information is.”

“Information from this decade, _yes_. Information from centuries ago, humor me and tell me what it is at least.”

She starts ticking off her fingers. “One’s on architecture.”

“Full-gloss pictures of the Arch De Triumph? We’re lugging that all the way home?” The 'H’ word, fuck. Maybe she missed it.

“You’re clearly just trying to impress me that you’ve heard of the Arch De Triumph, and, no. Practical architecture. How to build two-story houses without them falling down. How to do basic plumbing.” She sighs. “And what was left on curing meat, things like that… there was almost nothing left as far as medicine.. but actually, the crazy high-level medical journals left over are probably all that might be news to Curie anyway, so hey.”

Deacon’s starting to worry. “In metric tons, how many books are we talking?”

“Not that many. And we don’t have to take the whole cache now,” she bargains. “There… I mean, we could half-and-half it with the mystery novels.”

“The what now?”

Charmer grins as she sees his obvious interest. “And some old classics, too. I mean, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try to save some old-fashioned literature while I was at it.”

Deacon takes a deep breath, imagining fresh paperbacks in a stack by his bed. Slowly, he falls out of step with her to trail behind, walking up behind her and wrapping his arms around her middle. It sort of inhibits the walking, but he doesn’t care.

“Deacon.”

“Mmm.”

“This isn’t… I can’t take full steps.”

He rubs his nose into the nape of her neck. “Noooovelllls.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are lifeblood, lifeblood is word count.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the comments last chapter were so nice! I'm hoping to keep up the momentum with your support.

There are at least forty books. The novels are lightweight paperbacks and the medical journals are leather-bound and _fucking agony_ to pack.

“My back,” Deacon whines in advance.

“This is,” Charmer puffs and wipes her hair out of her eyes, still recovering from the last mutant hound they had to bring down. “Not so bad. Just pack at least these three farming-”

“ _Three!_ ”

She swats his arm. “I’ve already got four in my pack!”

Deacon allows himself a quiet, pained moan as he does as he’s told, but the walk-hugging has definitely come to an end. Goodneighbor is way too far for this. And then it’s got to go all the way back to Sanctuary. “Tell me these are so important. We’re going to be able to plant pineapples and build skyscrapers after this.”

“Pineapples and skyscrapers,” she lies dutifully.

**

Shaun and his guardian are meeting them at the Memory Den.

Charmer’s tense before they even reach Goodneighbor’s walls, and Deacon makes an executive decision and whistles, leading her down an alley and gently crowding her against the wall.

“Hi,” he says quietly. He traces the hem of her jeans before he curls his hands over the swell of her hips. “I’m trying to make you feel better. Is it working?”

Just barely in his eyeline as he nuzzles her chin, he can see a surprised smile. “Yes,” she says finally, and she turns her head left and then right before drawing him closer and pressing her cheek to his. “Listen.”

“Listening.”

“This is important to me. And it’s complicated.”

He knows where this is going. “I know you want to keep the details on this locked down. That’s fine. I won’t ask questions.”

She exhales deeply. Definitely the right thing to say.

He takes a risk and tucks himself up against her, pressing his mouth to the spot behind her ear. “You make the calls here. I’m just following your lead.”

She’s tense at first, but that’s probably just her surprise at the kiss, because it fades away soon enough, and she’s squeezing him tight.

**

The Memory Den has low traffic during the day, so it’s not hard for the two of them to slip through the lobby without much attention. In the hallway to Amari’s lab, a young woman is standing with her hand on the shoulder of the young synth.

Deacon instantly recognizes the woman - she’s the surviving Abernathy sister, Lucy. Deacon’s visited Abernathy farm and noticed two new settlers had been moved there, but he’d assumed Lucy was out trading or something. Not on the other side of the Commonwealth.

“Jane,” Lucy’s saying, stepping forward and embracing her. Jane, to his surprise, hugs back, if a little awkwardly. “I’m so sorry. I’ve tried everything, I-”

“Don’t apologize.” Charmer squeezes her shoulder and pulls away, turning to gesture at Deacon. “I brought along someone to keep an eye on the door for us. He doesn’t know the details, but he’s here to keep us safe.”

“Hi,” Deacon says, and waves. Lucy’s looking at him like he’s probably nice but definitely a little dangerous, and Shaun looks… too exhausted and miserable to even pay attention to him. The kid’s eyes are locked on Charmer. She finally kneels next to him and starts talking to him in a low voice, and - really, everything in the boy’s body language is saying that he wanted a hug too. This poor little guy.

“My name is Lucy,” Lucy says, because of course she has no idea that Deacon was a grimed-up scavenger that passed through the farm over a year ago. “I’ve been taking care of Shaun.”

He takes her hand and shakes it. “He looks like he’s been through the wringer. Hopefully Amari can help him out.”

“Yeah,” Lucy agrees, turning to watch with him as Charmer talks to Shaun. He doesn’t look scared of her, or intimidated, but there’s some incredible tension for some reason even though Charmer’s talking to him low and gentle, like a scared radstag. “He’s a really good kid.”

The door opens, and Amari looks at the four of them. “I need a moment with you two before we begin,” she says, gesturing to Lucy and Charmer. Charmer stands up and brushes her hand across Shaun’s arm; an awkward gesture of reassurance. Does she feel _guilty_ about something? Deacon can’t work it out.

“We’ll be right back,” she says to him, and then lifts her head to Deacon. _Comfort him_ , her eyes say, and she disappears with Lucy into the next room.

Well, he has leave to engage the target. Here goes. “Hey there.”

Shaun’s hands are fidgety, and when Deacon crosses the hall to see him better, he sees his eyes are bloodshot. He’s been crying.

“I wasn’t always chatty at your age either,” Deacon confides. “Grownups never had anything interesting to say. Why bother with ‘em?”

Shaun looks like he wants to disagree with such a sweeping statement, but holds back. At least he’s got the kid engaged a little. “Then again,” Deacon adds, holding a hand out palm-up like he’s weighing a second option, “most grownups haven’t fought a deathclaw bare-handed and won. So, I guess that puts me in a special category as far as interesting.”

The kid’s inspecting him now, suspicious. “That didn’t happen,” he murmurs, clearly unsure about contradicting an adult but compelled to anyway. “Deathclaws were bioengineered to resemble raptors. They’re literally designed for close combat.”

“Oh, we got a smarty-pants here.” Deacon plants his hands on his hips, grinning. “Were you there?”

“No,” Shaun admits, but rallies: “But lack of proof against an event isn’t… isn’t the same as proof that it happened.”

“Okay, okay, I may have had a gun on me.” Deacon shrugs. “And… Jane. Who was carrying an even bigger gun.”

Shaun swallows. “But you. You really did fight one? And win?”

“Yeah.” Deacon smiles. “Took a lotta grenades, but we were victorious.”

He’s got that wide-eyed awe Deacon’s seen on so many faces before. When your whole life has been cooped up inside a giant underground lab, even hearing stories about aggravated glowing mole-rats sounds like something too unbelievable to be real. Shaun doesn’t appear to be that different from his synth brothers and sisters in this respect. “Wow,” he says quietly. Then, “…I’m glad you’re okay.”

And, yeah, Lucy may have been onto something when she said this kid was good. Deacon hides his expression in a dramatic turn and drop, sliding down the wall and getting comfortable on the floor. It’s just convenient that this makes it easier to see Shaun’s face while he talks to him. “I have also,” he confides, “eaten three boxes of Blamco in one day.”

“The macaroni and cheese?” Shaun’s nose crinkles. “That’s… too much.”

“My stomach agreed with that sentiment, lemme tell ya.” Deacon pats his belly as if to soothe it. “Definitely felt less victorious after that particular adventure.”

Shaun doesn’t answer, but it’s clear that the ice has been broken at least a little. Deacon gives him a while in case he’s working up to something, but it seems more like he’s falling back into that unnamed anxiety.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay. Dr. Amari is, like, one of the smartest people I know.”

Shaun doesn’t look convinced. “Really?"’

Deacon nods. "And I look like a dummy, but I actually hang out with really smart people. So don’t sweat it. She helps synths all the time with all sorts of things.” And 'all sorts of things’ might be stretching it a little, but what’s important is that - wait. “What’s wrong?”

Shaun turns away, one hand pushing away tears in his eyes. Deacon checks the door quickly before scooting closer, reaching out to the kid’s shoulder to turn him back around. “What’d I say?”

“M'not,” Shaun mumbles, but his voice is hitching now, already well on his way to what appears to be a legitimate meltdown.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Deacon repeats, voice low. When he opens his arms a little, Shaun doesn’t move into the hug, but he doesn’t move away, either. “You’re not what?”

“I’m not a _synth_ ,” Shaun insists in a desperate hiss.

Deacon freezes. “Oh.”

“I’m not,” Shaun says again, body shaking as he holds back the sobs. He’s the one to look to the door this time, clearly worried that the others will catch him being emotional and he’ll be embarrassed further.

“Okay,” Deacon says, because he has no idea what else to say. Charmer referred to an idea that was causing a real problem, needed to be eradicated, but he had no idea it would be something like _this_. “Hey, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. C'mere.”

Shaun’s face crumples before he lets himself be held, finally giving in, kneeling on the floor, and holding on as tight as he can. Deacon can already feel the tears on his neck and soaking through his shirt.

“S'okay,” Deacon lies, rubbing his back. “Don’t worry. We’re gonna help you.”

Shaun chokes back a particularly loud sob and trembles. “I just,” he whispers. “I just want my _mom_.”

Oh, god.

Deacon clears his throat. “Yeah, buddy.” Fuck the Institute. Fuck them. Deacon wants to excavate the ruins so he can crush them down further into nothing. Why would they _ever do this?_ What was the gain in creating a kid that yearned for someone who didn’t exist?  "We all have those days. No shame in it.“ He keeps rubbing the kid’s back, patting it gently when he hiccups.

When the door to Amari’s lab opens, Deacon doesn’t let go until Shaun begins to pull away.

“We’re ready for you,” Amari says in a quiet voice, and Shaun pushes himself off the floor and walks in, head down. Deacon fights the urge to get to his feet, too, to follow him in and stay close. A doctor, a babysitter, and the woman who saved him from his creators and tormentors, and Shaun still looks so alone.

“You ready, hon?” Lucy is guiding Shaun over to the pod, helping him climb into the oversized seat. Charmer catches Deacon’s eye and gestures down to the end of the hall - _guard, please_. It’s more for appearance’s sake than anything else, but a request is a request, so Deacon nods and does as he’s been asked. He hears the door shut behind him.

He tries to turn his ears off, he does, but he’s been surviving on listening in for decades now and Goodneighbor walls are thin.

Amari is guiding them through some steps in a low voice, things are being powered up, causing a dull, electronic hum. Amari’s uptick at the end of her sentences now means she’s asking questions, but there’s only silence in between the repeats - Shaun’s not responding.

Charmer’s voice, one syllable. _Shaun_ , she’s saying. Again. A third time. Deacon scrubs at his face and looks around - fucking nobody’s here, Irma’s asleep on her bench, Deacon’s useless right now - before pushing off the wall he’s been leaning against and moving closer to hear what the hell is going on.

He already knows Shaun’s convinced he’s human. Deacon already knows the kid’s secret, so there’s no risk in listening in and making sure he can’t help by coming in and doing _something_.

“…focus on it,” Charmer’s saying, and from where her voice is coming from, she must be kneeling by the pod. “Just focus on it and take deep breaths.”

Shaun says something shaky and impossible to parse. Lucy sniffles in the corner of the room.

“Try saying it aloud,” Amari suggests. “Just repeat it, and let me hone in on the thought.”

Shaun says something else.

“I know, but it’s okay to say it now. You’ve been so great. You can say it now.” Charmer sounds wrecked. How has Shaun’s presumed humanity fucked with him so much? Why would it have to be kept a secret when nobody topside could tell he was wrong anyway?

Shaun says something different.

“Good,” Charmer says. “Keep going.”

Shaun repeats it. Deacon frowns. It doesn’t sound like - there’s nothing that sounds like ‘human’ in there, or ‘synth’, there’s _nothing_ that sounds like what he’s expecting to hear, but as if for Deacon’s benefit, the kid keeps saying it, over and over:

“You’re my mom. You’re my mom. You’re my mom.”


	16. Chapter 16

Deacon’s been standing at the end of the hallway, kicking himself for ever having moved away, for about ten minutes. His general sense of dread has ebbed back and forth, but has settled into some kind of high tide when he hears the door creak open behind him. Charmer comes out first, carrying an exhausted little boy in her arms.

“He’s going to stay here overnight,” she murmurs to Deacon as she passes him. He nods and trails after her, Lucy not far behind.

The little room isn’t much more than a closet with two mattresses, but Lucy insists that she’s perfectly fine staying here with him. Charmer goes over Amari’s instructions with Lucy one last time before pulling the sheet up to Shaun’s chin, looking at him for a few moments with a pained expression, and then leaving. Deacon shuts the door behind her and follows her to the Rex.

Deacon picks the room and Charmer pays. They take the stairs slowly and Deacon watches her as they go up. She’s working through that physical exhaustion that follows so much emotional distress. Like after he filled the grave.

As soon as they’re inside, they both put their packs down with heavy thuds. Charmer pulls her shirt over her head, using the wash bucket to start scrubbing at the collar. Tears and snot.

“Yours too?” she asks dully, and it takes a moment for him to register her question before he mumbles yes and takes his shirt off to hand to her. She adds it to the water, soaking it.

He’s got to tell her.

“Apparently it worked,” Charmer’s saying already, before he can steel himself to start talking. “The idea’s gone. But it’s going to take at least one long REM-filled sleep for his brain to sort of… reorganize itself… It’s like a huge event has happened that he needs time to process.”

“What-filled sleep?” Deacon asks.

“REM,” Charmer repeats, and then laughs hollowly. “Sorry. Rapid-eye-movement… it means deep sleep. Where you dream, where your brain really rests.”

“Gotcha.” He wants to make some sort of joke Charmer’s old world knowledge, but he can’t come up with anything that doesn’t sound flippant right now. She sounds so _tired_.

Time passes as Charmer works and Deacon tries to make himself be brave.

“I feel like a fucking monster,” Charmer mutters under her breath.

“You’re not,” Deacon says, before he can think to stop himself. She snorts and keeps scrubbing at her shirt a few more times before straightening and crossing the room, pulling out a drawer just enough to pin her shirt in it as it shuts so it can hang to dry.

“You don’t know what’s going on, but I appreciate it.” 

Well, there’s his opening. Feeling guilty, he kneels by the wash basin, gently taking his shirt from her. She looks a little irritated to no longer have anything to keep her hands busy, but allows it. “I was trying to calm Shaun down while you guys were talking inside,” he says quietly, trying to use his best wording to soften this. “I wasn’t trying to get him to spill anything, I just. I was trying to tell him Amari would help. He got upset and said he wasn’t a synth.”

Deacon tries to keep his eyes on his work, too nervous to look at her face just yet. She’s not moving. When he finally peeks, she looks like she’s accepting it. Tired. Ready to move on.

“You weren’t trying to get anything out of him,” Charmer echoes, forgiving him. He can imagine what she’s thinking: _that’s nothing. He doesn’t know what was really eating at the kid_.

“I’m still sorry,” Deacon insists. He takes a little while to gather his thoughts, pick a strategy. In his peripheral field of vision he watches her circle the room once, the planes of her bared shoulders and back harsh in the dim light. She finally sits on the single bed and lays down, pillowing her head with her arm and watching him back.

“It should be okay by now.” She means the shirt. He stops brushing but doesn’t let go of it.

“I was worried about him,” Deacon says. She frowns. “He was so upset. I was so fucking mad at the Institute. For fucking with him like that. I thought I knew… I thought I knew what you were trying to keep private, so when I was listening I-”

“When you what?”

Deacon’s grip on the brush tightens. “I was worried about him. I thought I already knew, knew what-”

“What do you mean when you were listening?”

“I fucked up. Through the door, when Amari was trying to talk to him but he wasn’t answering, I just, I’m not used to staying away from-” He winces as she gets up, back straight now, pushes herself off the bed to stand over him. “I didn’t know there was anything else.”

“I asked you to watch the hall.”

“And I was here for emotional support, not for intel, I know, I-” And he’s digging deeper now. He’s put to words the real reason she wanted him here, and _god_ has he fucked that up. “I didn’t realize the Institute would make a kid to torture him that much, make him think you-”

“Don’t redirect,” Charmer says sharply. “And you have no _idea_ what the Institute…” Her hands curl into fists, nostrils flaring as she turns sharply to walk to the dresser. Shit. She’s pulling on her shirt as he stands up, hands soaked, trying to stop the inevitable. “I’ve had to go through so much shit to make things right around here, I just wanted to fix this one fucking thing on my own. To not have to explain it to anyone.”

“You don’t, I don’t need you to explain anything. It’s not my business.” Did they do this to Shaun to hurt her? Because they knew she cared about synths? That she would care if one suffered? God, she’s going for her pack. “Charmer, please, I know I fucked up.”

“Just.” She’s keeping her face turned from him, but he steps in front of her, trying to stop her without touching her, and she’s, fuck, she’s so mad. She’s furious. “Stop talking.”

“I’m sorry,” Deacon can’t stop himself from saying.

Charmer’s jaw works as she holds back a response. His hands are up in a desperate bid for her to stop, water dripping down his palms and onto the floor. Finally, she steps to the side, walking around him, and he knows the best thing he can do right now is to let her do it.

“Stay here,” she bites out. “I’ll get you in the morning. Just. Stay." 

He stands still as she hauls her pack over her shoulder, as she unlocks the hotel door so she can leave and shut it soundlessly behind her. He looks at the door for a few seconds before it sets in that this is his fault, that this could ruin everything, that he’s sleeping alone tonight in the best room in the Rex, the one with nice sheets hidden in a box under the floorboards.

Mutely, he turns back to the wash basin, trying to resume scrubbing the gunk out of his shirt. His hands are shaking. She’s furious with him. The Institute tortured her with mind games that she wanted desperately to move past, created a child as a pawn to make suffer, and she just wanted to compartmentalize. Just wanted to deal with it alone.

That envelope with folded papers. One was probably from Lucy saying Shaun still hadn’t recovered from being brainwashed. The other was probably Shaun asking if he was a bad son.

Deacon yanks his shirt out of the water and throws it in the direction of the dresser, digging the heels of his palms against his face.

She’s buying a second room right now. She’s sleeping alone. She doesn’t want to be near him. She trusted him more than anyone; Hancock still thinks her given name is _Jane._  She trusted him to get close to this fucked up thing that hurts her and he stuck his nose in it, it wasn’t his business, for once he had to not do his job, he-

Deacon realizes he’s breathing too fast. He sits down on the bed and forces himself to inhale slowly, eyes shut tight.

He doesn’t know the whole story. She said that. There could be even more layers to this. More things they did to the kid, more reasons why they did this to Charmer. He was right to tell her straight away, to not hide it from her like a coward. Maybe she just needs to cool off. She’s so rarely angry, though, and the look in her eyes like she’d _trusted_ him and he _ruined_ that, it…

Pushing himself up on unsteady feet, he blows out the candles on the end table across the room and forces himself to get under the blankets.

**

After lying there for twenty minutes, he remembers that his bag is full of mystery novels and discovers that, yes, he can feel even worse.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been patient.

He can’t sleep.

**

When the light starts creeping in through the too-thin curtains, Deacon’s not surprised. He rolls onto his other side and tries not to obsess over how much he might have thrown away.

**

By the time Charmer knocks on his door a few hours later, he’s already cleaned up, dressed, and shaved. She’s got her pack over his shoulder but she’s not backing up to indicate they’re going now.

“Can I come in?” she asks instead, and that’s an unexpected knife in Deacon’s gut. _This is our room_ , he thinks. _You bought it. It was for us._

“Sure,” he says instead, and backs up for her to come inside. She’s halfway past him when she stops and stares at his face. Suddenly the sunglasses don’t feel like nearly enough, and when she moves in closer, he doesn’t flinch.

“You haven’t slept.”

Deacon doesn’t say anything. She moves just enough that he can shut the door behind her, and then she’s back in his space, eyes concerned and soft and a little tired too. He’s not surprised when she finally reaches forward and lifts the sunglasses, taking in how absolutely shitty he must look, but at least she’s… well, he was steeling himself for her wearing an unreadable mask, for gritted teeth or a set jaw, but none of it’s here.

“You really didn’t,” she says, like she’s talking to herself. “Deacon. We need to talk.”

And when he flinches, there’s no guard. No glasses, no control of his face, and he just barely catches the way her fingers tighten around his glasses before her face twists in annoyance - at _herself_ , he realizes - and she closes the space between them, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and holding him close.

“Not like that,” she says quickly. “No. Please stop panicking. I’ve already fucked up.”

“It’s okay,” Deacon says, because whatever is happening, she’s _not_ telling him to leave, and so he forgives whatever mistake she did or didn’t make.

“I was so mad last night,” Charmer says into his shoulder. “At you, but mostly at… circumstances. You’ve been so good about all the shit I can’t talk about, and I’ve been dragging you right up against it but telling you not to look.” She breathes shakily. “And that’s really against your nature.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“I know.” She starts to loosen her grip on him, to back away. For the first time he lets himself follow after her and bring her back. He didn’t think he’d get this closeness again and he’s not ready to let it go just yet. She makes a soft sound and presses into him until his back is tight against the wall. “I’ve been trying to do right by everyone and I’ve been messing a lot of it up. I’m going to - I want to tell you what’s happening, I - I came in here to do that, but Deacon, no offense, you look fucking terrible.”

“It’s my disguise,” Deacon jokes weakly, and is rewarded by a sad chuckle and a nose pressed under his ear. He suddenly, desperately wants her to kiss him there. The emotional relief and the physical closeness is mixing into something else. “I’m usually so beautiful. Nobody will guess it’s me.”

Her hands drift to his waist and squeeze there. “Let’s.” She breathes deeply. “I didn’t sleep well either, let’s lay down for a little while. I already checked on Shaun. Lucy’s getting him breakfast. We can have an hour or two to ourselves before we walk him to the shore.”

The shore. Where the ferry is, back to Spectacle Island. “Okay,” Deacon says, and lets himself be led back to the bed he was so sick of fifteen minutes ago. The sheets are still a tangled mess but he just stretches out on top of them, watching as Charmer eases her pack off of her shoulder, unlaces her boots, and climbs more or less on top of him.

He thinks about saying something, like _I’m glad you’re not still mad at me_ or _I thought I was going to be alone again and I was so scared_ or _You trusted me and I fucked up and I had no idea how much it would hurt you_. Instead, he shifts until he’s comfortable, one hand light on the back of her neck and rubbing gently. Her weight is perfect, grounding him. She makes a grateful sound into his collarbone. She’s so warm.

**

He wakes up a couple hours later when the weight on his chest is shifting. Deacon makes a valiant attempt at holding her tighter while pretending to still be asleep, but she changes tactics, nuzzling his neck until he has to wake up.

“No,” he responds eloquently.

“Yes.”

She’s rubbing his side, fingers soft but firm through his t-shirt. It’s just enough pressure to gently pull him from sleep. He makes another mutinous sound and, unexpectedly, she presses her lips to his cheek.

His eyes flutter open. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She’s smiling but looks a little hesitant. “I owe you some context.”

 _No you don’t_ , he’s somewhat tempted to say. As much as he wants to know everything that’s going on at any given moment, things about Charmer are a special case where keeping things in boxes with good locks seems to make her happy. And Deacon wants her happy.

“That’s up to you,” he says finally.

“Well.” She sits up, hip pressed against his side. “Listen, before I start, just… just promise me you’ll let me finish, okay?”

“Okay.”

She nods. “The leader of the Institute had some incurable disease. And… the best I can figure is that he didn’t know how to deal with the idea of dying. He used the synth program to make a sort of… clone of himself.”

Deacon’s eyebrows raise in alarm. Charmer notices the expression and curls her fingers into fists, like she knew this was coming and has to go through it anyway.

“No neural mapping,” she says quickly. “He didn’t… if he’d done anything like that, and somehow kept anyone from knowing and kept it off every record I searched, Amari still would’ve noticed it if Shaun had some underlying consciousness waiting to pop up.”

“ _Shaun’s_ the clone!?”

Charmer winces. “Yes,” she says. “But like I said, his end-of-life crisis - Deacon, please sit down - the leader’s crisis didn’t make sense. He _properly died_. He left behind a genetic copy of himself but that’s it.”

Deacon makes himself sit back down, on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees and head in hands. “That’s…” This could go a long way to explaining the ‘mother’ programming. What better way to protect your clone from the person who wants to tear down everything Institute-related than to make it a loving child?

“I had to hide him,” Charmer insists. “The other synths knew him. I wouldn’t blame one of them if they suspected he had a second purpose, or…”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Deacon says weakly.

The silence stretches out for a while. “He’s just a kid,” Charmer repeats. “He never knew what was going on. What he was.”

“I know, I know.” Deacon groans. “God. Okay, yeah. We keep him on the island for now. We… is all the weird programming taken care of?”

“Yes,” Charmer says gratefully. “He’s still… absorbing everything… but it’s not like talking to a brick wall anymore. He understands.”

“Okay,” Deacon says, feeling like a broken record. “Right. Okay. Unwitting clone of the most hated guy… but hey, everyone still alive who saw his face is on our side, and… Christ. Still.”

Charmer swallows. “You know I try not to get too close to your personal stuff, but.” She gestures. “I figure… whoever does your face swaps, they’re good at what they do and they can keep their mouth shut, right?”

Deacon pales. “Charmer, he’s just a _kid_.”

“Not now! Later, in the future. If he wants to travel.” Charmer looks miserable. “I’m just trying to think of options for him. When he grows up, he’ll look even more like… like the Institute leader, and… if he starts thinking this out and getting scared he can’t ever step foot off that island, I’d really like an ace up my sleeve to keep him from feeling like he’s trapped.” When Deacon doesn’t say anything, Charmer looks at him with open desperation. “You don’t have to give me a name or even a place. Just. Are they somewhere nearby? Is there a chance we could get them here, or bring Shaun there, that they’ll still be alive and nearby in ten years?”

Deacon takes a deep breath and thinks it out. “There’s a good chance,” he allows finally, and Charmer lets out a held breath. “But, I mean, it _hurts_ , Charmer. It’s a big decision, even if I… I know I make light of it, but…”

“I know, I know.” Charmer swallows and moves in, holding him tightly. “Thank you.”

“Hey, no big deal,” Deacon jokes weakly. “A good referral might mean I’m in for a discount, so everybody wins.” He smiles at her when she pulls away. “So… that’s it, right?”

She looks away. “That’s more than enough for now,” she says finally. “If he’s up to it today, we’re gonna walk him back to the shore so he and Lucy can ferry back to the island. You up for that?”

Like he has any plans to leave her side. “Sounds good.”

**

Deacon goes to Daisy’s and buys a chess board, sweet-talking himself into some scraps of paper as well. He tears up careful squares and writes in thin and thick letters for the opposing sides: KING, QUEEN, BISHOP, KNIGHT, ROOK, PAWN. Shaun’s eyes light up when he sees the board, and while he seems disappointed that the original pieces were long lost, he likes Deacon’s solution.

“You be skinny, I’ll be thick,” Deacon suggests, and Lucy watches as Shaun excitedly begins to arrange the squares in their proper places. The intricacies of this game are lost to most of the Wasteland, and Deacon’s happy to be the rare exception who’s read up on every game from rummy to chess to bridge.

“I used to play a lot at the Institute,” Shaun says, thoughtfully. “They liked it when I played. They said it was good for… forethought, and decision-making.”

“You’re the type to plan five moves ahead,” Deacon says with a grin. The expression is clear and telegraphed, and Shaun relaxes a little, as Deacon had hoped. Now that he’s in a safe place where he can talk about this stuff, hopefully he’ll take advantage of it, and start contextualizing it a little better now that he’s no longer burdened with confusing 'facts’ that never matched up.

“Not _five_ ,” Shaun mumbles, and moves a pawn two squares forward. “I liked playing with Dr. Li. She never let me win.”

Charmer smiles a little. “You ever beat her?”

Shaun smiles back. “Once,” he confides. “She was _so mad_.”

“Well, I hope you’re not a sore loser, because I’m about to wipe the floor with you.” Deacon picks up one of his knight square by its corner to put it in front of the pawns. “Bam!”

Lucy frowns. “You can jump over your own pieces?”

“This piece can,” Shaun says patiently. “It always moves in an L shape, so it’s good to keep it close to whatever you’re doing.”

“Oh?” Charmer asks.

“Yeah. Bishops and rooks can take pieces from all the way across the board, but knights come in from an angle, where the piece they’re getting can’t get to it.”

“They’re modeled after the cavalry from olden times,” Deacon says seriously. “Who were all so drunk that they kind of moved like…” He gestures one hand moving forward but then swaying left at the last moment.

Shaun laughs. “That last part’s not true!”

“Says you. Now, come on, defend yourself from the drunk horse.”

**

They take to the road. Shaun is healthy, but he’s not used to traveling on foot for very long. Deacon gives him a piggyback for a while, and then they stop to rest up and eat lunch.

“He kept your pieces,” Lucy confides in Deacon, while they’re setting up the campfire and Charmer is showing Shaun how to scout for traps. “Tucked them into his novel like little bookmarks.”

“He’s got a board back home?” Deacon asks.

“Yes, and pieces one of the old women carved for him.” Lucy smiles meaningfully, and Deacon takes the hint - Shaun likes him. Admires him, maybe, even if it’s just because he’s someone Charmer brought along as an assistant she could trust. Kid’s got no idea.

“Always good to have a travel set.” Deacon lights the fire and starts pouring the water in the pot.

**

As they eat, Charmer coaxes Shaun to talk more about what’s on his mind. Shaun says he can think more clearly, and that the gaps in his memory make sense now. To see a kid with such a big vocabulary stumble through these topics as he picks at his radstag with a _fork and knife_ at a _campsite_ is pretty surreal, but Charmer just nods and listens to him talk, like all of this makes sense to her.

Deacon looks at the body language of Shaun, small body relaxing a little bit when Charmer compliments how brave he was the other night. He also watches how Lucy - hand-picked for this job - seems to be the perfect caretaker for the complex kid who really just needs someone to care about him and show him the ropes of survival.

Charmer and this kid aren’t related, but Deacon can tell when someone’s become part of the extended Commonwealth family Charmer’s been building up for about a year now. People like Piper and Mac might not notice the day-to-day things they can say to her that others can’t, or how close to her they’re allowed to get, but there’s an inner circle, and this kid is in it now. Maybe he always was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is lifeblood. Lifeblood is word count.


	18. Chapter 18

There are some mirelurks on the shore, and Shaun watches Charmer with great interest as she steadies her rifle against an old crate and takes aim. She waits patiently until the first mirelurk turns enough that she can get a headshot - its flinch gives her enough time to pepper its chest with four more rounds, taking it down. Deacon’s got the second mirelurk staggering on its way over to them by the time Charmer adjusts her position behind the crate and helps shoot it down.

Shaun waits until Charmer’s satisfied that nothing else has been drawn by the sound of gunfire. Then he asks, “Did it take a long time to get used to doing all that stuff?”

Violence, he means. The kid have a pretty good idea of what pre-war life was like on the home front.

“Yes,” she says simply, “but it’s easier when it’s about surviving. And it’s even easier when it’s about helping other people too.” When she comes up on the first mirelurk body, she pulls her knife out of her boot. “Has Lucy taught you how to carve things up yet?”

Shaun hesitates, eyes stuck on the odd-colored goo leaking out of the monster. The waves are lapping just close enough to it to rinse the sand off the edge of its shell.

“Another time,” Charmer says. “Come on, help me signal the ferry it’s safe to come to shore.”

As Shaun smiles in relief and joins Charmer in waving across the water, Lucy scurries over to Deacon and gives him a conniving look. He gives her an easy smile back, still in character. “What’s up, buttercup?”

She giggles a little, eyes flickering over to where Shaun has started to hop up and down. “It’s my last chance to ask you,” she says, whispering. “Do you live at Sanctuary, where Jane does? Or are you ever there?”

“I’m there a lot,” Deacon says with an easy vagueness. “Lookin’ for a quiet spot for mom and dad to retire? It’s a little busy.”

“No, no. Jane’s moving them to the island soon, they can’t wait, it’s -” She waves the idea aside. “A bald guy. Have you seen the bald guy there?”  
Deacon, who chose his pompadour for this cover, tilts his head a little in innocent confusion. “Can you be more specific?”

“The provisioners always bring us gossip.” She’s smiling so widely. “Apparently Jane’s got someone special up there. How great is that? Do you know anything about it? Are they serious?”

Oh, Jesus. “You should team up with Piper over in Diamond City. A gossip column might be just the thing to boost readership now that the synth craze is kind of dying down.”

She smacks his arm in friendly impatience, looking back to where Charmer is kneeling down to Shaun’s level and showing him something with her pip-boy. “Come on! Spill!”

“I was brought on this mish specifically because I’m known for keeping my trap shut,” Deacon says with full honesty. “If I knew anything about that, I don’t think she’d like me blabbing.”

Lucy lets her head fall back, rolling her neck and smacking him again. “You’re the worst. Fine. Well, thank you anyway. For everything.” She gestures vaguely to Shaun, who’s now turning a knob and staring fascinatedly at the readout.

Deacon looks at him too, smiling a little. “No problemo.”

**

It’s starting to get late when Charmer and Deacon are almost back to Goodneighbor. Deacon’s been enjoying the comfortable silence between them, but he’s not positive what the plans are going forward.

“Are we picking up the books and walking through the night, or can I lure you to the lazy side so we can bunk down for another night?” He glances casually in her direction, searching for any signs of returned interest. Given too much proximity to her without a direct next steps or emotional conflict, and his mind has drifted back to the feeling of her nose pressed against his neck, breath warm down his shirt. Even if he chickens out too much to try something tonight, or if she’s not interested, he’s still craving some closeness at the very least.

Plus, seeing Shaun calmed down and noticeably less brainwashed seems to have put her at ease in a big way. Is it selfish to want to try to take a little advantage of her good mood?

“Let’s see how hungry we are when we get there,” she says, expression thoughtful but otherwise unreadable. “If we get dinner at The Third Rail it’ll definitely be too late to keep going.”

“Then please allow me to recite their menu as we walk,” Deacon replies. “On repeat.” He beams when she laughs. “Just warning you, I’m including their drinks list. It’s the most important part by far.”  
  
She quirks a brow, teasing him. “Are we drinking tonight?”

Something in him quivers, and he feels the heat rushing up his throat and to his ears. “You’re the boss,” he murmurs, flying by the seat of his pants now, but apparently that was a good answer - her eyes go soft and dark and her smile is wry, genuine, as she turns back toward the road.

**

Goodneighbor is dark and quiet when they get back. The two drifters Deacon’s pinned as Triggermen lookouts are somewhere else tonight, and the music spilling out of The Third Rail is low and pleasant, drawing him in.

Deacon’s reluctant to put space between himself and Charmer as they walk now, but a cover’s a cover. The silver lining is that Charmer notices almost as soon as his walking distance changes, and her obvious confusion shifts to understanding impressively quick. He’s always liked how much he doesn’t have to spell things out for her.

“Name?” She asks, because of _course_ she’s noticed that Deacon managed to get through all those interactions with Lucy and Shaun without ever even having to say who he was.

Deacon shrugs. “He’s new,” he says. “Didn’t want to give you something recycled in case it got tangled up with something else.” Either she doesn’t recognize the bait or she doesn’t take it. As they go through the doors and past the guard, he leans in a little. “You could pick.”

She slows on the last step, but whatever her reaction was to that, it’s now covered by a calm mask of warmth as she waves hello to Charlie behind the bar.

“If it ain’t one of the few Vaulties I can tolerate,” Charlie remarks, whirring over where they’re settling down. “What’ll it be?”

She begins fishing in her bag for caps. Deacon recognizes it as the ploy he taught her to make it look like she might not have quite enough - just because she’s loaded doesn’t mean it’s safe to advertise it. “Any good bottles of whiskey?”

“The word ‘good’ narrows it down quite a lot,” Charlie grouses, but plunks down something in a dark bottle with a worn-white label. “That all?”

“Two Brahmin steaks’ll do it,” she says, and ignores his audible sniff as he whirrs away. To get something that nice for a guy that looks like hired help is an unnecessary kindness, but honestly, it’s not that remarkable for someone with Charmer’s reputation. Deacon suppresses his urge to smile and drums his fingers on the table instead, feigning surprise when she takes a pull straight from the bottle and then slides it his way.

“I must’ve done okay,” he says, voice intentionally coming out a bit rusty. Her quirked lips tell him she’s enjoying the game.

“You earned your pay and then some,” she assures him, eyes lingering on his mouth just a little too long as he drinks. “Might actually keep you around at this rate.”

“I don’t have any other contracts coming up.” Deacon bites his lower lip as if he’s thinking back to make sure, and his breath stutters at the way she watches that too. He goes for it: “I think I can hang around for as long as you need me.”

He sets the bottle down between them, channeling the energy of a man who wants to look like he doesn’t need the money. It’s actually a good cover for his genuine anxiety, but almost instantly, her lips quirk into a faint smile. She’s facing forward and pretending to examine the faded posters at the wall.

“I bet I can keep you busy,” Charmer says finally. “We can discuss an indefinite retainer later.”

Charlie interrupts their discussion with two noisy thunks as he sets the steaks gracelessly in front of them. Charmer waits until he digs up some silverware before thanking him, pulling a handful of caps out and counting them on the bar. Deacon pretends not to watch her, cutting into his steak and feeling a funny sort of warmth in his stomach. The conversation lulls as she begins to eat as well, flipping the knife through her fingers slowly as she chews. She’s playful. She’s enjoying this too. He hunches a little more over his food, sinking a little deeper into the character.

“It’s odd work,” she warns.

He chews and swallows. “As long as you aren’t gonna have me carry anything too heavy,” he says, tone dull and serious.

Charmer smirks, and he knows she’s thinking of the books at the Rex. “Never,” she pretends to promise. “Just some technical documents here and there.”

Deacon’s answering smile is wide. “Got a new buyer for those after the last one fell through?”

“Collecting for myself now.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder, taking another swig of whiskey. “But a bodyguard doesn’t need to ask so many questions.”

Bodyguard, huh? He can go with that. “No, ma'am.” And if he hadn’t been doing this kind of work for so long, he wouldn’t notice the way her hand tightens around her knife. “Whatever you say.”

She swipes her tongue across her lower lip, eyeing him now - _careful. Don’t oversell it._  “I’ll say plenty, but you probably want to finish your meal first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D


	19. Chapter 19

They aren’t even up to their room yet and Deacon’s already losing the willpower to keep his cover. He shadows her up the stairs, intimately close, and is mere inches from her by the time they’re inside and she’s shut the door.

As soon as the guns are on the table, she pushes him by the shoulders until his back hits the wall. Deacon lets out a short breath of air and grabs her waist. He can feel his body temperature ratchet up, and he barely remembers to tug his wig off and let it fall to the side. She laughs softly and he smiles back.

He wants to make a joke, something about dropping character. She doesn’t give him time; her mouth presses to his, hot and wet and demanding. He makes a quiet sound as she holds his jaw, angling him just how she wants. Kissing her feels like heaven right now. He pulls her hips to him and tries not to shake. She presses tighter until his back is flush with the wall and he can feel her breasts pressing firm against his chest.

“Fuck,” he mutters into her mouth, as they break for air.

Charmer laughs breathlessly and kisses his jawline, free hand drifting lightly down the front of his road leathers. “We good?”

It takes him a moment to understand what she means. “Yeah,” he says finally, nodding for emphasis. He takes the opportunity to open his eyes and take her in. Her dark hair, the dilation of her pupils, the light flush on her skin and the new redness to her lips. His breath stutters. “Yeah.”

She’s looking him over too as she smiles. “Good.” Slowly, she unzips his leather jacket, grabbing the lapels. “You’ll tell me if that changes.” It’s an order, not a request.

Deacon commits himself to it. “Yeah.”

“Good,” she repeats, and slows down a second, looking him up and down one more time before using her grip on his jacket to push it off his shoulders and down to his biceps. His arms are more or less stuck at his sides now, but that doesn’t seem to be an accident. She crowds him against the wall again, one palm flat against his chest and the other cupping the back of his head. “You’ll tell me?” she says one more time. He can feel his erection pressing insistently against his pants. He’s torn between gratefulness at how gentle she’s being with him and hating himself for how he handled it before.

“Want you,” Deacon breathes, leaning forward as much as he can while pinned. “Want you so bad, Charmer, please, I promise I will.”

Her eyelashes flutter at the word ‘please’, and Deacon swallows and shifts a little to get his arms into a comfortable position in the jacket’s sleeves.

“Please,” he says again.

Charmer uses her grip on his head to pull him into the kiss, body firm and warm against his. His hands curl into fists and he catches her lower lip in his teeth, drawing it out just a moment, and it works - she comes back with renewed vigor, teeth and tongue, letting go of his head and reaching between them to squeeze his cock through his pants. The relief washes over him and he moans into her mouth.

She nips at him and pulls away, grinning, and something about how _happy_ she looks to have him in this position does weird things to his insides; makes him harder, makes him… “Thank you,” he jokes, as if it’s politeness in general that gets her going. Charmer laughs and it’s still such a beautiful sound, and it _feels_ good too, the way her smile fits against his mouth as she kisses him again.

“Mmm.” Her hands come together at his stomach to start pulling at the belts, letting the loose ones fall to his feet. When she gets to the one actually in belt loops she takes her time, seeming to enjoy the way that tugging at it automatically brings Deacon to her.

“You don’t need that to get me where you want me,” Deacon pants.

She smirks at him, leaning in, past his face, capturing his earlobe between her teeth and tugging oh so gently. _Shit_ , he thinks, feeling his legs go weak and starting to really use the wall for support. He barely notices as she pulls the belt through the straps, letting it fall with a clunk to the floor. When she starts to run her tongue along the shell of his ear, that. That is what fucking does it.

“Charmer, God, please. I’m so fucking hard I can’t think, I, ffffuck yeah your teeth, God….” He shivers as he feels her hand come up to hold his chin again, keeping him steady. Her right hand is opening the front of his leathers, “Please,”is starting to inch down. “Please don’t stop. Please touch me. Please. Please, please…”

“If I’d known you could get this noisy, I’d’ve taken you somewhere else.” She sounds amused. Aroused, too - his breath catches as he feels the tips of her fingers nudge past the elastic of his underwear.

“Sorry.”

“No, no. Don’t be.” She drags her teeth down his neck. “Makes me want to get you somewhere you can really let loose and scream.”

 _Fuck. Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t._ “Ch-Charmer.”

Her whole body freezes. “Too much?”

“No! Not too much, God, please.” He fidgets in the jacket, unwilling to get free but unable to keep still. “ _Definitely_ don’t want to stop, definitely want the opposite. Mm.” He relaxes against her as she kisses him, short little reassuring ones this time. He’s smiling by the time she pulls back again, beaming at him and then looking down his body to the obvious bulge in his underwear. She seems to take a moment, looking at it. He’s a little above average, but this level of examination is still making him apprehensive. “Too much?” he jokes.

Charmer’s eyes flick up to his face, and from her grin it’s clear that she’s going to call that bluff. He licks his lips as she leans in, ready to kiss her again, ready to feel her against him, but just as his eyes start to flutter shut she’s gone, dropping to her knees in one fluid motion and tugging his underwear down. Deacon stares as his erection smacks against his abdomen and Charmer grips him firmly at the base, looking up at him with an innocent expression.

“Too much?”

Deacon swallows.

“Tell you what,” Charmer continues, angling his cock toward her mouth and using her free hand to push her hair to one side. “I’ll go really, really slow, and you can tell me if you-”

“Please,” Deacon tries. “Pleasepleasepleaseplease.” He groans as she chuckles, obviously unphased, “I’ll say whatever you want at this point. Or do? I can do things. I can do lots of ohhh, ohhh, fuck.”

Her mouth is soft and warm around the head of his cock, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut and concentrate on not losing it right then. Through the sound of his open-mouthed panting he can hear the slick noises as she pulls off, still holding him firmly, and licks wetly from base to tip. The heat in the base of his spine blooms outward, making him shiver.

He barely holds it together enough to open his eyes and peek. She meets his eyes, already looking up at him, pulling back just enough to speak.

“Keep talking,” she encourages. “Lets me know you’re doing alright.”

Deacon swallows. “What should I say?”

“You’ve been doing fine so far.” Charmer smiles before leaning in, sucking gently, taking in more and more of him as he groans and lets his head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, trying to think of what to say. Then he feels her squeezing him, making his cock twitch in her mouth, and that. _That_ is a topic of discussion. “That feels so fucking good, I, I can’t…” He arches toward her mouth as she starts to pull back. “No, no, come back.” He can _feel_  her laughter as she dives back down, can feel the tip of his cock brushing the roof of her mouth, the back of her throat, and he gives up on any kind of dignity and whines. “If you keep - I can’t - If you keep doing that I’m gonna lose it, Charmer, I will, I can’t hold on.” He hasn’t done this with another person in a long, long time, but he’s had enough sessions in his own room at Sanctuary lately to know how close he is.

“Mmm,” she acknowledges, but she keeps going, hollowing her cheeks and making his hips buck forward.

“I’m serious,” he tries.

“Mmmmm.”

“Oh, fuck.” He gasps for air. “You _want_  me to. You want me to come pushed up against a wall with my arms tied up, you… of course you do, Jesus. God, Charmer, I’m so fucking close.” He thunks his head against the wall. She pulls off, stroking him now, and presses her lips against his thigh.

“I want you to,” she agrees. “I’ve been wanting to see you come for a really long time, actually.”

“Th-that’s cheating.” He can feel his balls tightening, the heat in his stomach running up his spine like it’s ready to spill over at any second.

“It’s true.” Her voice is husky, but it’s said so matter-of-factly, like it’s such a simple truth. He can’t get enough air. “I’ve thought about this a lot.” And then she leans forward again, taking him in, as far as she can before bobbing and down at a rising pace.

“Oh,” Deacon says, squirming in his jacket and then slumping a little further against the wall. Her free hand comes up to his hip, steadying him. He watches her head move up and down, lewd sounds just audible over the sound of him babbling. “Oh. Yes, yes please, like that, like - oh - oh _fuck_ God please don’t stop - I’m -”

He shudders and feels his legs start to give out under him. It’s _so much_. Deacon shuts his eyes again, hoping to slow the inevitable, but he can still _hear_ her, still _feel_ her, and he’s been aching for this for what feels like forever. She pulls back a few inches and sucks the head, stroking the rest of him slow and rough.

He comes, the orgasm wracking him hard and pulling a drawn-out groan from him. All he can feel is her mouth on him, sucking him down, and the sharp points of pressure where she’s holding him up by the hips, pinning him to the wall to keep him from collapsing.

Deacon’s still trembling when she pulls off, and he’s grateful that she hasn’t let go of him yet. She licks her lips and smiles up at him, eyes grazing over him carefully as if taking in every important detail. He must look like a mess.

Charmer gets to her feet, hands moving to his jacket and finally pulling it all the way off of him. He immediately braces himself on her shoulders, looking at her sheepishly, but she just nuzzles his cheek and tugs his pants back up so she can grab him by the back of the legs and _carry_  him over to the bed.

He throws out one arm to balance himself against the mattress, but she doesn’t drop him onto it. Just sets him gently on the edge and presses his shoulder til he lies back.

The mattress is cool and mostly soft. Charmer, straddling him now, is blissfully warm and he wraps his arms around her waist as soon as she’s close enough. Before she tucks her self into the crook of his shoulder, he gets a glimpse of her expression: pleased, aroused, the cat who got the canary. He is so, so happy to be her canary.

“That was nice,” he ventures.

“Not the worst,” she replies, joining him when he laughs. “Jesus. I thought spies were supposed to be tight-lipped.”

“Yeah, me too.” Deacon is starting to feel less out of breath. He still feels _overdressed;_ still hanging out of his pants but decidedly still in his boots, said pants, his t-shirt… he hasn’t even managed to get her top off. Sated but curious, his fingertips curl around the hem of her shirt. “I guess there are exceptions. Having really, really nice private time with a woman you’re in-”

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love, love is word count. 
> 
> Word count is Deacon boners.


	20. Chapter 20

He feels her hold her breath. Behind his sunglasses, he tracks her expression, barely visible with how she’s tucked up against him: she looks hesitant. Unsure.

The longer he spends trying to gauge her reaction to his slip-up, the more attention he draws to it. He has to throw a curve-ball in and redirect the conversation. “You haven’t had yours.” He lets his hands drift up her back. His fingertips take in how locked her muscles are at the shoulders, and so he keeps moving, brushing his nose playfully against her ear. It’s not until he’s dragging his nails against the skin exposed between her jacket and her jeans that she shudders a little, slowly relaxing. “It’s bad enough I had mine first. Let me take care of you, huh?” He lets his voice go soft. “Can I?”

“Deacon,” she says quietly.

She likes the voice he’s using. He can work that. “I’ve been thinking too,” he confesses, hands circling around her hips and meeting at her belt buckle. “About getting you off. Getting to do that for you.”

Charmer’s smiling against his neck, and when she shifts above him, it’s to lift her hips up, giving him access. Permission. “Yeah?” she asks, feigning light interest. His hands only shake a little when he yanks the belt open and starts on the button of her jeans.

“ _Oh_ yeah,” Deacon confirms. The zip goes down, and now that the belt’s undone it’s obvious that there’s not enough room for him to slide his hand in at any decent angle. He plants one heel in the mattress and scoots himself to the side, making room for her and then gently tipping her onto her back. The way she moves so pliantly for him is addicting. Even more than before, Deacon wants to give her the same quick-and-dirty orgasm she just gave him against the wall. “I usually imagined you with all your clothes off, but the leather jacket’s kinda doing it for me. I bet we can just-”

And when he reaches the hem of her underwear, he’s caught off-guard by how quickly she turns her head and kisses him. Her teeth graze his lip and make his cock twitch, exhausted but hopeful _._ She’s panting when she breaks away, moving back enough to wrestle her boots and jeans off.

It takes him a minute to get enough blood pumping in his brain to think of what to say. Her only focus seems to be on him, but he can’t help but stop and look at her body, at so much new skin. Her thighs are muscled and pale, splayed open ever so slightly in tacit permission. 

“So I’m taking that as a ‘yes’,” Deacon says finally. He reaches forward and dips his fingertips underneath the fabric of her underwear and over the soft folds, biting back a moan because _god_ she’s wet. “Oh my God, Charmer.” When she looks away from him and shuts her eyes, he’s almost grateful; feeling her this way feels so invasive after so many walls and careful steps, but she’s allowing it, she’s allowing _him_ … “Fuck.” He curls his first two fingers, wrist only caged in a little by the cotton, and gets a steady rhythm going against her clit in quick, efficient strokes. “Yeah?“

She doesn’t respond. He tries to look at her face, but she’s still looking away. Past the sounds of clothes rustling, the wet sound of his fingers stroking her, he can hear sharp, tight breaths and he wants more, wants her to talk like he did for her. "Gimme something,” he pleads.

“Don’t stop.” She takes in a short breath and swallows, stretching beside him and tilting her body toward him a little. It changes the angle, and the needy moan she lets out makes it clear that it’s an improvement. Deacon strokes her faster and reaches his free hand around her head to brush the hair from her face. He wants to see her. He desperately wants to see her.

“I won’t,” he promises. He keeps stroking, forearm brushing against the soft curve of her stomach. She feels so _warm_ , the soft folds wet and the hood of her clit giving just a little under his fingertips. He kisses her shoulder as he continues to push strands of hair out of the way. “I won’t.”

But she’s still not turning to look at him. He tries to think of what else to try without being pushy when he starts to feel her legs quiver.

She’s close.

“Yeah,” he encourages, swallowing. Okay, she’s not ready to let him see her like this. There’s one last wall, when she’s this vulnerable. That’s fine. He just wants to get her there. “C'mon, sweetheart, come on, let me make you feel good…” His cock twitches again when she gives a soft cry, hands gripping the sheets now. “God, yeah, that’s it.” His arm is getting sore and he couldn’t give a shit, she’s trembling next to him and the smell of her is threatening to get him hard again. “You’re so beautiful.” Her hips cant upwards, meeting his fingertips, and she goes rigid against his side. He uses his left arm to hold her shoulders, grounding her as much as he can as he pushes her over the edge.

**

Charmer wakes up first; he feels her disentangle herself from him, only moving far enough to reach their packs. Deacon rolls over and presses his cheek against the shared pillow, allowing him a few more moments of rest before pushing himself up on his elbows and squinting his eyes open. She’s eating, he realizes, and as she notices him watching her she smiles and reaches out to offer him something. Half a mutfruit.“Thanks.” He takes it and stuffs the whole thing in his mouth, not wanting to risk getting the juice stains all over his bare chest and the sheets. She smiles at his puffed out cheeks, watching as he chews carefully and swallows it down. “Breakfast of champions.”

She rolls her eyes and hands out a second item - a strip of dried meat. Radstag, probably. “Here,” she says. “You never eat enough in the morning.”

Deacon takes the strip and looks over it a few times before biting the end off and chewing carefully. It’s _dry,_ but it tastes like it’s been mixed with fat and … maybe dried berries. He grins as the old term comes to mind. “Pemmican.”

Charmer’s eyes widen. “I thought that word died.”

“I’m a literate man,” he reminds her. “Explorers used to live off this stuff to make it through Canada trading furs… you’re right, though, we still make this, but we only ever call it jerky.”

She grins as she bites off a particularly large piece of her own, getting to her feet and looking around for her shirt. “We’re not playing, but I think you earned yourself three points anyway.”

“ _Three_ ,” Deacon stage-whispers in wonder, making her snort and bump her hip against his shoulder as she passes.

“Three.”

“Wow. Three.”

**

When they get back to Sanctuary, Deacon discovers that Hancock has been busy. Two windows on the old bunkhouse have been removed and boarded up in preparation for the armory move, and the sounds of Codsworth's propulsion motors and the smell of Abraxo are a good indication that the building has been completely emptied out.

Hancock greets them in the middle of town and catches them up. MacCready’s still traveling, no news on That One Project yet, and the crops are coming up good. “Curie’s asking to keep her old bedroom to use for her food prep and storage projects. I told her ‘probably yes, but wait for Jane’.”

“Right answer, and I say yes.” Charmer unlocks her house and holds the door for both men. Deacon’s not really sure if he’s expected to unload all his gear into _her house_ , but he follows nonetheless, dropping his bag in the corner and taking one of the chairs at the table. “Has she asked for any new supplies?”

“Nothing Codsworth hasn’t been able to give her,” Hancock rumbles. “Few good knives. We’re a little low on coolers, but it’s nothing to worry over.”

She must be giving him some kind of look, but from where Deacon’s standing he can only see Hancock’s reaction to it - surprise, pleasure, arousal. Something in her eyes is telling him he did a good job. If he was a puppy, his tail would be wagging.

“Nice to have you back,” Hancock adds quietly. He holds still while she closes the space between them. Deacon watches as her lips brush against his cheek, making his scarred skin darken in a flush.

“Go get some rest,” she tells him. Hancock grins and turns to leave, giving Deacon a brief nod of acknowledgment before walking out the door and closing it behind him. Deacon listens to his footsteps fade away as Charmer turns to him and studies him a moment. “Door,” she says finally, and so he walks to the door and locks it, heart rate ratcheting up just a bit in the hopes of what might come next. “Ready to unpack a little?”

Deacon emits a whiny disappointed sound, making her laugh. “Why are you so work-focused?”

She’s shaking her head as she opens her bag, dragging it to the book case and beginning to stack the architecture books. Deacon pulls his over too, putting the farming ones on the opposite end. When she reaches in blindly and pulls out a paperback, she pauses, studying it. There’s a trenchcoated silhouette on the cover, with a plume of smoke trailing up toward the title: _Black Betrayals_.

“I think that belongs on the medical shelf,” Deacon suggests helpfully.

Charmer wets her lips and turns it over in her hands a few times, finally passing it over to him to put in his own bag. For his room. Something’s changed. They continue unpacking the others in silence. Architecture. Medical. Farming. Farming again.

Deacon takes another paperback from Charmer as she passes it over, but the third makes her pause again. Finally, she takes it over to the shelf with the tchotchkes.

“I want one for myself,” she says simply. “Plus, if you have _all_ of them at your place, we may never see you again.”

“Bullshit,” Deacon says earnestly. Then, “I’d have to come out to eat  _some_ time.”

They unpack the rest in silence. Charmer looks happy.

**

**

When Deacon had seen the diagrams Charmer had drawn up with Sturges, it looked like a great rig to move big objects. Take a shipping container, secure some chairs on the top, add some wheels and axles and two yokes, and you have the most post-apocalyptic covered wagon in existence.

“No chairs inside?” Deacon had asked.

“No, that’s where the mirelurks go.”

His eyes had narrowed. “Okay, I’ll admit that when you said this would be to catch giant crabs, I figured I was missing out on some old-timey slang.”

But no. The door on the back is rigged to open and close only from the outside, and Strong has been roped in as the handler who must remember to knock the beasts out but not bash them _apart_. Curie explains her role and then hurriedly explains that 'sexing’ an animal means _determining their sex_ , much to the relief of Deacon and everyone else listening in.

“We need females to lay ze eggs, and later, we will pick out the mildest males to introduce for mating.” She smiles brightly. “If we are lucky, we may even be able to breed a more domestic breed of creature!”

MacCready scratches his head. “Like, they’ll wear collars and do tricks?”

“Non,” Curie tilts her hand back and forth. “More like… they will be less aggressive, and perhaps smaller.”

MacCready looks to Deacon and shrugs. “I’ll take that.”

“I can get my own slippers in the morning,” Deacon agrees.

**

Deacon is legitimately impressed with how well it goes. From the top of the shipping crate it’s easy to search the shores from a reasonable distance, and while Strong’s not a fan of wearing so much armor, it’s clear he’s getting real pleasure from all the punching. Mirelurk shells are tough, but a super mutant hitting them directly in the face does turn out to be pretty damn effective.

Strong sits on the first one’s stomach, waiting patiently as Curie jogs down the beach and kneels down to inspect it.

“Pulse,” she shouts, confirming Strong hasn’t accidentally killed it. Then, after a few moments peering between its hindmost legs, “Cloaca!” She’s clapping delightedly.

Deacon leans in to Charmer until his cheek is on her shoulder. “Is that French for 'eureka?’” He stage-whispers.

Charmer laughs and kisses the top of his head. “It’s the part that means it’s female.”

“Oh. …You don’t have a cloaca, do you?”

“No, dear.”

“Are you sure? Has Curie checked?”

“I care dearly for you, but I will push you off this shipping container and onto the pavement.”

“Noted.”

**

“It’s like a circus,” Deacon says after the first mile to the quarry.

“Hm?” Charmer’s looking at the road ahead, relaxed but watchful. She’s not quite as relaxed as Curie, who is asleep on the secured bench in front of them.

“Circuses had those long things that looked like trains,” Deacon explains. “With all the animals inside.”

“Oh.” Charmer looks down at the shipping container, which has so far been blissfully quiet, and smiles. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“Can we paint the side with a big mural?” Deacon spreads his hands apart in the air like he’s smoothing out a poster. “Come see the giant Sea Beast! Doe & Doe Circus is not one to be missed!”

“Strong is obviously the strong man,” Charmer remarks thoughtfully. She laughs at how quickly Deacon’s face lights up.

“Yes,” he agrees. “And MacCready’s our Annie Oakley.”

“I didn’t know you knew who that was.”

“Not _all_ my books are presents from you,” he teases. “And, hey. Dogmeat’s smart, right? Can we teach him to balance on a ball?”

“Circus animals never balanced on little things like basketballs.”

“So we’ll have one for his front feet, one for his back feet. Really, that’s actually a much more impressive trick.” Deacon takes on a thoughtful expression. “Cait could be the lion tamer.”

“We’re putting a mane on Dogmeat now?”

“No, her head would never fit in Dogmeat’s mouth. A Deathclaw, maybe.”

“Yes, because the mirelurks are too easy to domesticate for eggs and meat. What we need is a carnivore that weighs more than eight of us put together.”

“We need to sell _tickets_ , Charmer.” Deacon nudges her side. “We gotta _fill seats_.”

Charmer looks equal parts exasperated and fond. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I’d apparently be on the pavement if you didn’t.”

“Several times over,” she assures him, and smiles when he checks that Curie’s definitely asleep before leaning over and giving her a peck on the cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hop on over the the sequel, which as of May 2016 is in progress.
> 
> And extra thanks to my beta, sorrel, and to everyone who's commented and supported.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Looking Past the Lies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6103240) by [PostApocalypticPrincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PostApocalypticPrincess/pseuds/PostApocalypticPrincess)




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